


The Ride of Apollo

by Lana_Holt



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Divergence - Mockingjay, F/M, Greco-Roman, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, brief scene of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lana_Holt/pseuds/Lana_Holt
Summary: In the Capitol, sex is like the Hunger Games – the customs of Ancient Rome updated with the latest technology. There are no limits when it comes to what might thrill and entertain – especially when there’s no limit to your bank account.As with the Games, the youth of the Districts are the most popular toys of titillation. If they win, they simply become more expensive...*******************************************This is the twisted story of Gracen Avanknar, the spoiled son of the Capitol’s technology titan. When Gracen meets Peeta Mellark, he thinks he’s found a god come to earth. He manages to free Peeta from Snow’s clutches after the Quarter Quell, but will Peeta be able to teach him the difference between obsession and love before it’s too late?Please note the non-consent warnings. This story involves a character unknowingly given chemicals that manipulate his feelings and eventually his body.





	1. The Contract

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is unrelated to my Everlark story _The Aim of Artemis_. Sorry for any confusion.  
>  Thank you to papofglencoe, JavisTG, and finduilasnumenesse for their exquisite help. Find me at Tumblr @pinksnailsaver.
> 
> This alternates POVs between Peeta and an original character.  
> 
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> 

_Pain_.

It's lost its distinctiveness, or else he's lost his ability to distinguish it.  There are no more types of pain, not even really degrees of it.  No more sense of which part of his body it's coming from. There is just the intense, searing pain that jolts through him like razor blades slicing from inside his body, and when it passes it leaves the lingering pain, its shadow.  And then it returns, so he eventually recognizes it as one long wave, ebb and flow.  Relentless waves crashing against the shore.   

And just when unconsciousness descends upon him with its tantalizing promise of oblivion, the splash of frigid water brings him back, or the bright, cruel light, or the cacophony of screeches and screams so much louder than the meager sounds he's still able to squeak out himself.  And when none of these things can keep him from blacking out, a needle finds its way into his arm, and the injections are their own kind of torture, because the drugs go straight inside his brain and make the waking nightmare all the more surreal.  

There is no greater sense of powerlessness than the inability to control one's own mind.

Sometimes he can still open his eyes.  That's the one thing that he can still control.   _Eyes open.  Eyes closed._ That is a choice.  But open eyes means seeing, at least blearily, what's in front of him. The man in the white coat.  The man they call 'Doctor.'  But he can't be a doctor.  Doctors heal.  They don't inflict excruciating pain.

_Doctor Pain._

Maybe it's just because he wears a white coat.  He has no distinguishing features, just a thin-haired head, balding in the front, a scruff of beard on his chin.  Wrinkled eyes from squinting with intellectual interest and reflection.  He doesn't seem to care about his appearance the way other citizens of the Capitol do.  He only cares about his work.

_Eyes closed._

Peeta does not want to see him.  Even seeing him is torture.  He survived two Hunger Games and thought he'd seen the worst the Capitol could offer.  The worst that people could be.  But he was wrong.  Here is this man who nods stoically as he records each of Peeta's agonized reactions to whatever he inflicts.  He seems focused on the science of it, measuring and taking notes, sometimes murmuring them into a recorder, sometimes tapping at a screen.  He inflicts pain even when the people with the questions are not there.  

Peeta understands the people with the questions.  He knows what they want.  The arena was destroyed and they want to know how.  They want to know what he knows of the rebels.  They started asking questions long before they brought in Doctor Pain.  They promised him things.  They promised to reunite him with his family.  They promised to let him go so that he could be with Katniss.  He told them what he knew, which was nothing.  And the promises turned to threats.  Then turned to heartbreak.  His family is dead.  Katniss is dead.  District Twelve is gone.  They showed him the pictures.  The burnt bodies.  That was the beginning of the torture.  He understands that now.

But he still does not understand Doctor Pain.

_Pain._

The wave crashes, pulls out from shore as the next rolls in.  Don't bother to tense up, it won't help.  He has long since stopped tensing.  He remembers Doctor Pain saying this into the recorder.  Something about "capitulation."  Peeta didn't know what that meant.  And then "surrender."  He knew what that meant.  

If he’s surrendered why don't they stop?

++++

The conference room is gray and sterile.  Gracen isn't really surprised, since this is supposed to be a hospital, but doing some interior decorating in his head might be a good way to pass the time.  Help calm his nerves.  Why is he so nervous?  Everything is going according to plan.  Everything is going to be fine.  He has crossed every "t" and dotted every "i."  And if he hasn't, his team of lawyers and their assistants certainly have.   _So what is taking so long?_

He can barely make out his reflection in the glass doors leading to the hallway.  Is his hair out of place?  It has a tendency to flop to one side and leave an atrocious gaping part that suggests hair loss that a 28-year-old shouldn't have.  His mother tells him he's working too hard.  But she has no idea.  The breach of the arena and total collapse of the Quarter Quell Games has been a life-altering event for every programmer.  No one knows where the axe will fall next, how wide the swath of the swing.  Some have already committed suicide just from the sheer panic.  

But for Gracen, it was a godsend.  It makes him want to believe in some kind of god, as quaint as it seems.  Actually, he looks forward to getting acquainted with many quaint things if everything goes well.  And that is what is causing his stress.

He stands up and walks to the mirror.  He fluffs his unruly hair back into a well-distributed mop and then curses when it won't stay.  He turns to the two lawyers and one assistant at the long conference table.  "Does anyone have hairspray?"

Hector Pine, the older of the attorneys, does not look up from his screen as he replies, "Gracen, stop fussing with you hair."  

The assistant giggles, and Gracen glares at her.  "Sorry," she says, batting her thick, sparkly eyelashes at him and giving him a sweet smile more teasing than apologetic.  She's pretty and pink: shiny strawberry lips, twisted ribbons of pastel and magenta hair running through the blonde.  By way of apology she gestures at the tray of coffee and stale pastries sitting on the credenza.  "Would you like me to get you something?"

"No," he replies.  He doesn't bother with a thank-you.  There is only one thing he wants.  One thing he absolutely has to have and has decided he's not going to leave here without.

He turns back to his examination of the decor.  The fabric on the chairs is hideous.  Dull and gray and cheap-looking, frays and nubs visible to the discerning eye.  Nothing in the Capitol should look like that.  If they're going to have chairs that ugly, they might as well live in District Twelve.

_District Twelve_.  Of course that's where his mind would go.  The dictates of good taste aside, he needs to appreciate District Twelve a little more, and not just because it has ceased to exist.  That district is giving him a gift.  A very precious gift.

_What is taking so long?_

++++

_Eyes open._

It's dark.  They're not in the hospital room anymore.  They're back in his cell.  Peeta is vaguely aware of being suspended from the ceiling, his wrists bound together, hanging by his arms.  This itself used to produce pain, the strain in his arms and shoulders as he dangles and jerks about, but this discomfort is now a tiny ripple that disappears into the waves crashing against the shore.  

At one point, back when he still distinguished such things, he prefered this to the hospital room.  When he's strapped down on his back on the gurney, he can't see much beyond the grayish-white ceiling tiles that reflect the blue light of the computer screens.  He hates the computers.  They make him feel like an experiment.  His heartbeat, brain waves, every bodily function converted to data, a blip on a screen.  Every tear, every bead of sweat, a scream, a sob, the endless and pointless shouts of ‘ _No!’_ and ‘ _Please!_ ’, each entered into a database of other screams and pleas from other "patients."  The number crunchers then determine where he is in the process, when they should proceed to the "next stage."  

Here all the pathos of humanity is reduced to an algorithm.

In the cell, there's almost a shade of romance to it.  At first it reminded Peeta of the dank dungeons from childhood stories, the kind a hero escaped from, perhaps with help from a beautiful sorceress.  Of course, it didn't seem romantic for very long.  When hanging he can look down and see the uncontrolled movements of his body, the flapping of his foot as electricity passes through him, the pool of his urine on the floor.  It magnifies his helplessness.  

_Eyes closed._

He doesn't think about sorceresses or escape anymore.  He only thinks about how much he wants to die, and whether he can remember to inhale the next time he throws up so he can choke on his vomit.  He needs to keep his head clear for that.

There must be a break in the proceedings, since he has clearly had time to form a conscious thought.  A door opens, and he debates opening his eyes again.

And then he hears it.   _That voice_. It murmurs something to the doctor, telling him to stay.

Peeta didn't think anything could terrify him more than the doctor.  He didn't think he could still be terrified.  But he freezes, unable now even to open his eyes.

He wants to run, to get away, and he struggles against the bonds on his wrists.  He stretches out his legs -- or at least his good one -- down to the tips of his toes, trying in vain to reach the floor.  It's the first time in what seems like forever that he's truly aware of being restrained, tied up, unable to escape.  

And then the smell hits him, and bile rises in his throat.  After so much time over-acquainted with his own filth -- piss, shit, and vomit -- it's the sweet smell of roses that truly nauseates him.

"Hello, Peeta."

The voice is close now.  The smell is close.  President Snow is close.

_Eyes closed.  Stay closed._

"Don't play games, Peeta.  I know you're awake."  And then the voice says something that seems directed at the doctor: "Take it off."

There's a sucking feeling in his knee, something that he might've found painful once, and his artificial leg is ripped away.  His eyes fly open.

Snow is in front of him, just a few feet away.  The old man holds a rose right beneath his nostrils.  "I must say, my boy, you've looked better.  And certainly smelled better."

A flash of shame runs through Peeta.  He's naked, hanging like a side of meat over the evidence of his incontinence.  But he fights back the embarrassment with anger, another emotion he thought he forgot how to feel.  This is all because of Snow, and Snow is the last person who has any right to make him feel ashamed.  Peeta still can't find words, but he manages to meet Snow's gaze with something that feels almost like defiance.  Perhaps his 'capitulation' is not complete after all.

Snow tucks the rose in his lapel and takes the prosthetic leg from the doctor.  He admires it, running his fingers over the length of it.  "This is a very fine piece of craftsmanship.  So lifelike, yet so functional.  It's a valuable gift we gave you.  I'm not sure you ever thanked us."  He holds the leg upside down by the ankle.  "It would've been nice to get a note."

Peeta fights back the bile.  He does not want to choke to death in front of President Snow.  

"Don't you have anything to say?" the old man sneers.  And then his lips twitch in amusement and he cocks his head to one side.  "Afraid you might put your foot in your mouth?"

And with that, one of Snow’s hands wrenches open Peeta's jaw while the other raises the prosthetic and stuffs the toes into his mouth.  

Peeta tries to jerk his head away, tries to push this invading object out with his tongue, but Snow reaches behind his head to hold him in place as he pushes the foot in farther.  Peeta is helpless, gagging, no hands to push this man away, no ability to reach the floor, no surface at all on which to gain any purchase.  And could he muster the strength even if he had the opportunity to struggle...  So finally he holds still as his mouth stretches until his lips crack and split as they wrap around the object too big to fit any farther.  It tastes as bad as the floor it last touched.

Peeta thought he had defeated the shame, but now complete humiliation and defeat wash over him like ice water, and he shivers.  He can't look at Snow anymore.  As he closes his eyes, he feels the sting of tears.  What's worse than what's happening to him, everything that has happened to him, is the thought that it can happen at all, that anyone could be this viciously cruel.  Everything he ever believed in is gone, replaced by emptiness and darkness.  Obviously, evil holds the greatest power.  Good cannot win.  Does it even exist?  Is love just a figment of his imagination?  

Just a few minutes ago, Peeta thought that the lowest point was losing the will to live.  He was wrong.  He had still had one thing left.  The will to die.  And now he can't even enjoy that thought.  To die in this way...   _No._  As that last bit of hope dies as well, he finally surrenders.  It reaches into his gut like cold, steel talons and pulls everything down, sinking through him to his toes, leaking out of him, his inner strength and dignity stripped away like the clothes from his body.  He has nothing of his own, no will of his own, no body of his own; he simply belongs to Snow.  As if the tears weren't enough, the point is punctuated by a small, hot trickle of urine he can feel hit his leg.

"Perfect!" Snow exclaims, with real delight in his voice.  He slides out the foot from Peeta's mouth.  

Peeta coughs and retches, but there's nothing left in his stomach to come up.   He opens his eyes to see Snow grinning at him, the glint of victory in his eyes.

"They said they'd gotten everything they could from you, but I find that I can always extract just a little bit more.  And you, Peeta, were holding out on us.  You still had a shred of dignity left.  You provincials and your pointless pride."  He hands the leg back to Doctor Pain, who seems defensive.

"We still have quite a ways to go," the doctor begins.  "We hadn't even gotten to Lev--"

"Yes, yes," Snow cuts him off.  "Consider it a credit to the efficacy of your methods that Level One nearly finished him. He needed but a little something to push him over the edge.  The worst pain is always psychological, especially with the emotional ones."  He reaches up and wipes a tear from beneath Peeta's eye.

"Sir," the doctor counters, "I respectfully disagree."

"Of course you do.  And I'm sure you know agony that I cannot imagine.  But one must have a sense of proportion.  It's almost a waste to use your talents on an innocent boy like this.  He's not exactly a trained soldier."

"It's never a waste as long as we get data."

"Perhaps.  But while I'm sure it would be of great interest to science to learn what sounds young Peeta would make when you fasten the electrodes to his testicles, to me it seems like gilding the lily."

"I think that would be considered 'gelding' the lily."

Snow lets out a hearty laugh.  "Oh, Doctor!  I do love a good torture pun.  'Gelding'...  What say you, Peeta?  Shall we snip off your manhood and mail it to Katniss for her next birthday?  And here we were just going to send flowers."

Somewhere deep inside Peeta, something stirs, like a spark from ashes tossed out into the cold night.  A last dying ember reignited by the wind.  He coughs, trying to clear his throat.  And then he speaks, his voice barely more than a croak:

"You told me Katniss was dead."

The smile dissolves from Snow's face.  With widened eyes he glares at Peeta, indignant and seething, searching for words that don't come.  He turns to the doctor and grabs the artificial leg.  His teeth set together as he hisses, "I want you to take this, Doctor..."  He holds up the prosthetic by the foot again and points it toward Peeta like a bat.  "And shove it up that boy's ass."

The doctor nods stoically.  "Yes, Sir."  

+++

The conference room doors finally swing open.  Gracen looks up to see Mr. Pidwick from President Snow's office, but he doesn't recognize the woman with him.  She's older and dressed in a fantastic yellow suit.  It's a welcome stroke of color.

Pidwick holds out his hand.  "Gracen, good to see you again."

"You too," Gracen lies.  He shakes hands with the steel-hearted bureaucrat as if they like each other, and then he introduces his legal team.  "These are my attorneys, Mr. Pine and Ms. Beagle, and their assistant."  He doesn't remember her name, and he doesn't care.  "This is Mr. Pidwick, President Snow's Chief of Staff."

"Call me Fran," Pidwick replied.  "And this is Ava Littleby, the director of the hospital."  Gracen notes that the wardrobe of the hospital staff far outpaces the decor.

With all the hand-shaking complete, everyone sits down.  

"I'm sorry we kept you waiting," the woman in the yellow suit says.

"Well, you're here now, so let's get this done."  Gracen feels a nudge from Pine, and he knows what it means.  He should be more polite.  He's a programmer, someone who gets along well with computers, and he's never been good at dealing with these political types.  But he knows he has to break the awkward silence, so he adds, "Um, I love your blouse."

"Oh, thank you," Ms. Littleby replies.

"My mother has one just like it."

"Okay," Pine jumps in.  He strikes a conciliatory tone.  "We appreciate your time.  My client is very eager to bring this matter to conclusion.  Have you had time to review the final contract?"

"Yes," says Pidwick.  "It's very... _thorough_."  He pauses.  "I must admit, we're not used to dealing with contracts for this sort of thing."   

"Understood," says Pine.  "We're not used to _writing_ contracts for this sort of thing.  But you must recognize that all the parties involved are very important to President Snow: both Gracen and his father, of course, as well as..."  Here he looks down at his screen, as if needing a reminder of the other name.  "Mr. Mellark."

Pidwick nods.  "As you know, the Quarter Quell was never finished, so Peeta Mellark is still technically a tribute, which means he is under the authority of the Games Committee."

"Yes.  My client appreciates all the work you've done in coordinating our efforts with the Committee.  All of that paperwork is included in the appendix for Section Two."  

"Your client?"

"Yes.  Mr. Avanknar."  He gestures at Gracen.

"It's interesting that he's your client, because his name barely appears in the contract.  Ninety-five percent of this is about Peeta Mellark.  Are you sure _he’s_ not your client?”

In the awkward silence, Gracen feels hot blood rush up through his shoulders and neck.  Suddenly the conference room feels less cold.  He glares at Pidwick, who knows full well that if Peeta were the client, he would’ve been able to see his attorney.  But they’ve had no contact with him whatsoever, have not laid eyes on him beyond the video of a blank-faced Peeta staring into a camera and regurgitating scripted lines about national unity.

"Fran, if I may..." Ms. Beagle, the younger attorney, offers. "If you buy a house, your real estate contract is about the house.  But the house is not the client."

"Right."  Pidwick gives Gracen a smirk.  "You actually brought someone who does property law.   _Nice_."

Gracen doesn’t know where this is going, but he senses that Pidwick is trying to get them off-track.   He casts an anxious glance at Pine, who carefully refocuses the conversation.

"Section One covers the abrupt conclusion of the Games, wherein no evidence has been found of any participation by Mr. Mellark in the planning or execution of the destruction of the arena or the escape of any tributes.  He is herein declared free and clear of treason and will not be charged as an Enemy of the State.  Included in the appendix for Section One is a sworn statement by Mr. Mellark pledging his loyalty to Panem, to the Capitol, and to President Snow."

Pidwick nods, taking his time scrolling through a screen as if following along.  "Okay, but -- "  Gracen tenses at the word ‘but’-- "this is why I brought Ms. Littleby here.  Peeta is still a patient in the hospital, and his discharge is a bit outside my purview."

"And that's why we chose to go straight to the President," Pine responds.  "Because nothing is outside _his_ purview.  And if you refer to the hard copy of the contract, you will see Snow's personal signature on pages 7, 22, and 30, and 62."

_Written in blood_ , Gracen wants to add.  He's been through the final contract himself, and found it noteworthy that Snow signed in dark red ink.  Maybe that was just to make it noticeable.  Special.  It makes Gracen want to find himself a personal color to start using for his signature.

"Let me explain," says the yellow-suited director.  "Contracts aside, we have a treatment protocol here that must be completed.  Peeta sustained several injuries in the arena."

Gracen clenches his jaw.  He knows exactly what they mean by 'treatment protocol,' and it has nothing to do with healing injuries.  Even the most maimed and mutilated victors were typically ready for their close-up within a week after winning their Games, two tops.  It has now been twenty-two days.   _Twenty-two days and thirteen hours_.

The younger attorney fields this one.  "I've been in regular communication with the medical staff and was assured that primary treatment could be finished by today, and we would be able to move the patient to another facility to be assessed there for whatever further needs he might have."

"Yes," Pidwick nods, fingering the contract and smirking at Gracen again.  "‘Further needs.’  Your _special_ services."

Gracen does not care for the judgment in his tone.  He starts to say something, but Pine lays a hand on his arm.

Pidwick continues, "There's also the matter of televised appearances.  I don't need to tell you that now is a precarious time, and we need Peeta to be able to serve as a spokesperson to unite Panem."

"And his availability is noted in the contract," replies Pine, expertly keeping the annoyance out of his voice.  "The precariousness of the current state of affairs is exactly why we went into such great detail."  His tone is careful, cordial, and forceful.   

Gracen is grateful that his father put his best lawyer on this.  He knows that they have to come out on top, but he can sense that Pidwick is stalling, and that nervousness in the pit of his stomach won't go away.

"It's also why we put a tracker in Peeta to make sure he stays in the Capitol," says Pidwick.  "If he takes even one step outside the established perimeter, we have the right to seize him and bring him back into our custody."

"Understood.  And Mr. Avanknar appreciates your willingness to grant the small expansion that he requested."

"Well.  He should be thanking _you_ , not me.  Your reputation for negotiation has not been overstated.  But then, I guess you're pretty well compensated."

"And you are as well, I'm sure.  This contract represents a lucrative sum for the government, which is why President Snow put such an important man as yourself in charge of it.  The terms of what my client is offering are quite generous."  

And that's what it all comes down to.  The price they couldn't refuse.  The price for Peeta.

The glass doors open again, and a young woman walks in and hands a sheet of paper to Ms. Littleby.  She and Pidwick exchange looks.  He takes the piece of paper, glances at it, and then slides it across the table to Gracen.

"Then I guess all that's left is the release form."

The lawyers begin reading it as Gracen asks, "This form releases Peeta?"

"No.  That is a form that releases us from any liability."

"Liability for what?"

Pidwick says glibly, "It means that you can't sue us for any damage to your _property_."

Gracen glares at him.  He turns to Pine and flicks his palm upright.  "Give me a pen.  I'll sign it."

Pine holds up a hand to wait.  He and Beagle continue reading.

The hospital director stands up.  "You can bring that by my office later."

"No!" Gracen starts to rise, but Pine puts a hand on his arm and gently tugs him back down.  "Peeta is supposed to be released today!  We have a transport here waiting."

"It's best if you reschedule for tomorrow.  I have an opening at two."

Gracen turns back to Pine.  "Hector --" he pleads.

The old lawyer looks up at Littleby.  "We'll have this to you by close of business, and you will have Peeta ready to be moved, waiting at the transport bay with all necessary discharge papers, at 9:00 tomorrow morning."

"Fine," Pidwick replies.

"I want to see him today," Gracen insists, unable to keep his voice from turning into a growl.  "Now."

Ms. Beagle, sitting on Gracen's other side, puts her hand on his other arm.  Now both attorneys seem to be gently restraining him, as if they fear he'll leap across the table and throttle someone.  Meanwhile, their pretty assistant looks back and forth between the two parties with amused curiosity, as if hoping for just that.

Finally, Ms. Littleby holds out her hand to Gracen with an almost sympathetic smile.  "Trust me.  You don't want to see him today."


	2. Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple POVs again. Thanks as always to three very smart ladies: papofglencoe, JavisTG, and finduilasnumenesse, all of whom are here and on Tumblr. Check out their stuff. It's superb!

Gracen bends over the sink and splashes cold water on his face.  He doesn't care if it smudges his eyeliner.  He no longer cares about his hair.  He dries off, then grabs the edge of the sink and drops down to a squat, pushing back with hips to give his shoulders and back a good stretch, trying to release the tension.  He stands up and looks in the mirror.  The harsh light renders the utilitarian bathroom so dreary that it makes the conference room look like the lobby of the Capitol Grand Hotel.  Yet he's in no hurry to leave.  He can't bring himself to leave the hospital.  Not without Peeta.  

Peeta is _here_.  Somewhere in this disgusting building.

He doesn't like what he sees in the mirror.  The light does his complexion no favors.  There are circles under his eyes.  His face looks thinner, like his hair.  That was his mother's other complaint, that he's losing weight, which prompted her to bring him boxes of cakes, which he in turn gave to his housekeeper.  He doesn't need sugar.  He needs to find time to work out.  That would bring back his muscle tone and relieve his stress.   Or maybe he just needs to get some sleep.  It's doubtful that will be happening tonight.

The restroom door opens, and Pidwick from Snow's office enters.   _Why is Pindick still here?_  

As he heads toward a urinal, he claps Gracen on the back and says, "What I wouldn't give to be Armand Avanknar's son.  Must be the best job in the world."  Gracen bristles at the touch and glares at him through the mirror.  Pidwick cocks his head toward the door.  "There's someone waiting out there for you."

For a moment his heart flutters, but when he opens the door, he realizes that it's just Pine's pink-haired assistant.  She looks up at him with a smile, biting her lip as he steps out into the hallway.

Her eyes dart back to the bathroom door as she asks, "Are you sure I can't do anything to help you relax?"

Gracen would laugh if he still could in his current state.  Here this girl is, offering herself up to him while they're both there to procure for him a much-desired male.  But then, she must be familiar with his reputation for variegated sexual appetites -- not that it matters now.  He's been so focused on getting Peeta out of this torture parlor and safely home, sex is something he's been quite willing to forego.  He knows there'll be work to do before that will be possible with Peeta, if it ever is.

He smiles down at her in amusement, thanking her for the comic relief, if nothing else.  The girl’s love of pink travels even to her tinted irises, which must’ve originally been blue but are now a stunning violet.  The pink diamonds dripping from her ears match her hair and were probably a gift from a satisfied lover.  

His eyes travel down to her chest.  She has nice, round breasts that would just fill his hand.  He likes breasts...  

In some ways, he prefers women's bodies to men's, and he's been fortunate enough to sample plenty of each, along with neogens and unidentifieds and anything else that might help solve the mystery of what he's looking for.  Men's bodies, he feels, are best viewed from afar.  He likes _looking_ at them, like art.  Like what Plutarch Heavensbee, his closest mentor after his father, told him when tutoring him in their favorite subject, Greco-Roman history.  He said that the Greeks were unique in all of Western culture in that they held the male body, in its youthful, peak condition, to be the greatest representation of physical beauty.  Gracen could see that.  It's why he likes going to the gym, even though he has a professional-grade gym at home.  He likes seeing the muscles; he likes the way tight abs look under a tight T-shirt.  Or without the shirt.  

He worked hard to get a set of those himself, and he probably would've achieved it if he'd had time, but it was so much easier to lie down and have the cosmetic surgeon sculpt them for him.  Now he looks so good, he could work out without his shirt on, something his younger, gangling self could not have imagined.

But those hard, male bodies are less fun in close contact.  He likes softness, suppleness, something to sink his hands into and grab hold of.  That's why he likes breasts.  Plus, truth be told, Gracen isn't really comfortable with anyone physically stronger than he is.  And most importantly, he likes to do the fucking.  He does not like being fucked.  He's a 'top' in every sense.  He doesn't mind giving a (very) occasional blow job -- sometimes it's a social necessity -- just like he doesn't mind going down a woman if he's sure it's what she wants.  But he's not going to be entered under any circumstances.

And there's that one other thing that fascinates him about a woman's body, the softness and suppleness: its ability to swell with pregnancy.  There's something appealing about it visually and psychically, a sense of weakness and need that it inflicts, an abdomen expanding with no ability to control it.  On a practical level, it's the reason to marry a woman.  It would certainly make his parents happy.  

Gracen is heir to a vast family fortune, and they expect that he will, in turn, produce an heir.  He knows gay couples who have children, but it's always so much more complicated.   Adoption and surrogacy are full of potential pitfalls.  Thanks to automated contraception, the birth rate in the Capitol has dropped so precipitously low no one is giving up babies.  If you adopt from the outer districts, you either do your best to hide it or hope the child can live with the stigma.  Full-term incubation is the latest trend, but it's risky, and do you really want your baby gestating in a fish tank?  Gracen won't even eat farm-raised salmon; he has to have wild-caught from District Four.  And then there's the experimental male pregnancy, which has an even lower success rate and means practically living in a lab for nine months while they inject you with hormones.

None of that sounded appealing, so as he entered his late twenties and started thinking about settling down, Gracen tried to focus his attention on women.  He had a string of girlfriends and only hooked up with a guy if he was bewitched by an Adonis at the gym or drunk and letting off steam with his buddies from his computing fraternity.  Some of them liked to take it in the ass from him; they even acted like it was an honor -- which it probably was.  There isn't a programmer in Panem who doesn't worship Gracen's father.

Maybe that was a sign that women weren't enough.  The relationships ended; he grew bored with a girlfriend or didn't trust her.  If he didn't break up with her, she eventually broke up with him because he was so obnoxious.  And the older he got, the dissatisfaction grew into emptiness that became an ache.  How was it that, with all of this opportunity, he had never fallen in love?

That all changed with the opening of the 74th Hunger Games.

The sound of a urinal flushing brings Gracen back to the present moment and the pretty little thing gazing up at him.  Thinking about sex has him warming up to her now.  He leans closer.  Her lip gloss smells like bubblegum, her perfume like pineapple.   _This chick is a fucking candy store._  

He lifts his hand and cups her breast.  He was right; it's the perfect size.  Probably custom-made.

The bathroom door opens, and Pidwick walks out, glancing at them and giving Gracen a wry smile.  He holds the door for them.  

 _Maybe this can be my bachelor party_ , Gracen tells himself as he keeps his hand tightly around the girl's breast and pushes her into the bathroom.

Inside -- her and the room -- she bites his ear and moans in shocked ecstasy like his cock has brought her the answers to all of life's mysteries.  He's never been able to tell for sure if a woman is having an orgasm or just faking it.  This one could go either way.  He used to think he was just that good, but then someone told him a woman can't come if you're not touching her clit.  Fortunately, he's learned not to care. _If they want to fake it, fuck them._  One more thing he prefers about men.

Later, as they enjoy the splendid post-coitus that only a dingy bathroom stall can offer, Gracen asks a question that is not unusual for him:

"What did you say your name was?"

"Marti.  Rhymes with 'party.'"

"Of course it does."

She winks a violet eye at him.  "It'll help you remember."

"So..." he asks with his usual sensitivity, "is this service included in my retainer, or might I need to buy you dinner, or diamonds?"

Marti doesn't seem at all offended by the suggestion.  "I consider this _pro bono_."

"I should've seen that one coming."

"Yes."  She reaches to his chest and starts fastening the few buttons on his shirt she managed to undo.  "But you should take me on a date.  I'd be doing you a favor."

"How's that?"

"If you've got a special boy at home, you might need a girl to take out on the town.  Keep up appearances."

"What makes you think I wouldn't take him out on the town?  I have nothing to hide."

"That's where you're wrong.  Hector really should've talked to you about this."

"About what?"

"Peeta.  Poor, precious, puppy-dog Peeta.  Perfect, plump Peeta pudding-pie --"

"I get it.  You know lots of p-words.  Peeta isn't plump, or a pudding-pie."

"Have you seen his baby pictures?  I see them every day.  The girl at the desk next to mine has them as her screen-saver."  Marti bites her lip again.  She's coy, but also seems genuinely surprised that Gracen doesn't get it.  "You think you're the only one who wants him?  The only one with oodles and oodles of cash-on-hand?  If you take him out, show him off to all the fat cats who want an adorable little victor of their very own... the green monster is going to come after you."

Gracen eyes her steadily.  He wants to blow off this little strumpet.  She's playing a game, like there's some kind of prize for her to win.  Well, there is -- him.  At the same time, he can see why Hector likes her.  She has a way with words.

He smiles.  "That, my dear, is why I have an exclusive contract."

She shrugs and drops the leg she had wrapped around him.  "Just remember -- you're changing the rules of a game everyone likes to play."  As she starts to pull down her skirt, he stops her, reaching around to grab her firm ass and then spinning her around to face the white-tiled wall.  

"So, Marti Rhymes-With-Party, does my _pro bono_ status get me access through the VIP entrance?"

"No," she replies without missing a beat.  "That costs extra."

"How much?"

"A wedding ring."

"Touché."

++++

It takes him a while to realize that it's water.  The warmth surrounds him and lifts him up, makes him feel light, like a thousand soft fingers holding him.  But he's only half-conscious, so maybe it's a dream.  Nothing should feel good.  He isn't allowed to feel good.

Peeta tries to open his eyes.  There's light above him; he can sense that through his eyelids, which are too heavy to move.  

He hears the water running.  He's in some kind of tub.  Are they drowning him?  Is there going to be more electricity?  He feels these thoughts should bother him more than they do, but the thoughts seem detached from him, floating away.  He feels something soft rub over him and smells something sweetly perfumed, clean, like the linens on the beds in the Capitol, or on the train.  It smells like fancy soap.

They're giving him a bath.  He has no memory of getting into the bath...

When he wakes again he's not in the bath.  He's not as warm, but he still feels very light.  He doesn't know why he can't fully wake up.  He can't move.  Everything feels thick, closed in, like he's in a cocoon.   _Am I a butterfly?_  

He tries again to move.  A finger, then a hand.  His hand seems to move freely.  It's heavy, but it moves.  There's no restraint tying him down.  He continues trying to move his arm, his elbow.  When the movement reaches his shoulder, the pain returns suddenly.  

He must have cried out, because voices start talking.  Voices he doesn't recognize.

A woman's voice.  "Peeta, don't try to move.  Just lie still."

A man's voice.  "What is it? What hurt him?"

The woman's voice.  "It's just his arm."

The man's voice.  "Why is his arm hurting?"

The woman's voice.  "His shoulder was dislocated."  Pause.  "Both of them, actually.  They're set back now, and should be fine in a few days.  Nothing is broken other than the ribs, and the surgery repaired the internal injuries."

The man's voice.  "Give him something more for the pain."  

The man seems upset.  Peeta is confused.   _Why are they trying to stop the pain?_

The woman's voice.  "If we give him any more, it will knock him out again.  He's not going to stay conscious.  He's barely coming to as it is."

The man's voice.  "I don't care.  Knock him out then."

The woman's voice.  "I thought you wanted --"

"It doesn't matter," the man cuts her off.  "I can wait.  I don't want him to be in any pain."

The woman seems annoyed.  "Okay.  I'm just trying to follow your orders."

Peeta feels a hand rest on his head, a thumb gently running across his brow.

The man's voice, close to his face, barely above a whisper.  "Go back to sleep, Peeta.  You're safe.  No one's going to hurt you anymore."

As he drifts off,  he thinks he feels lips press to his forehead.

++++

It's harder than Gracen thought it would be.  Peeta's in bad shape and has to be heavily medicated. He hasn't opened his eyes even once.  Gracen, meanwhile, can't seem to close his.  

He stayed up all night waiting at the dreary hospital, despite his mother's pleas that he go home and rest.  But he'd brought a suitcase and was there to stay. The farthest he would venture out was to the cafe down the street; there was only so much wretched hospital coffee he could take, plus a sandwich wouldn't hurt. He went back up to the conference room to watch the sunrise.  It was the most beautiful one he'd ever seen, because it rose on his first day with Peeta.

They came to get him at 8:30 in the morning and led him down to a rear exit where Peeta was lying unconscious on a gurney.  Gracen barely recognized him, and had to cover his mouth to stifle a scream.  Peeta's skeletal body seemed to disappear beneath the white covers.  His face was a clash of pale and purple.  Gracen was so focused on that face that it was only at the last moment, as his people lifted the gurney into the transport, that he noticed that one of Peeta's legs ended at the knee.  Gracen insisted the staff go find the artificial leg and bring it, but he wouldn't wait for them to put it on.  He simply took the leg and laid it on the gurney next to Peeta.  Then he rode in the back of the transport all the way to the new, much better, hospital.  He wasn't going to take his eyes off of Peeta until he knew he was safe, now matter how nauseating it was to look at him.

And now, as his vigil wears on for another day, as sedation and then anaesthesia mean that Peeta will be out for a long time, Gracen longs for those blue eyes to open so he can see if the boy he knows is still in there.

He's looked into those eyes -- or, rather, those eyes have looked into his -- only once, but Gracen will never forget it.  Not that Peeta would remember.  It was at a party after his Victory Tour.  People were falling all over themselves wanting to meet him.  Plus, he was with _her_.

After stalking him for half an hour, Gracen managed to find Peeta alone by the antipasti buffet admiring the array of stuffed olives.  He was shocked that Peeta had never had an olive before; the burgeoning artist said that 'olive' was just a color in his paint set.  Gracen insisted he try one, and after a bit of half-hearted refusal -- which seemed less about reluctance than about giving Gracen an opportunity to feel like he won -- Peeta finally agreed.  

"Hit me," he said, tilting his head back and opening his mouth for Gracen to toss one in.  Gracen was so captivated, he couldn't even throw straight, but Peeta had quick reflexes and caught the olive anyway, snatching it out of the air with his mouth and showing it off on his tongue before biting down.  

"Mmm, that's amazing," Peeta said, as Gracen felt blood rush to his groin.  "Olives, where have you been all my life?"  

 _Yes._ The words echoed through Gracen's mind.   _Where have you been all my life?_

But that's not where it started.  It started with a chariot of fire.

When the Tributes were introduced for the 74th Hunger Games, no one was expecting District 12 to make any more of an impression than they ever did.  But when two beautiful teenagers rode out in a whirl of flames, the audience went wild.  Gracen wasn't in the control room that night; he had a prime viewing box in the stands above the parade route.  As he watched Peeta and Katniss go by, he was sure he was seeing the earthly re-enactment of one of his favorite stories from Greek antiquity that Plutarch had taught him, that of Apollo, god of light and reason, and his twin sister Artemis, the huntress.  In Roman times, Apollo would become conflated with Helios, or Sol, who steered the chariot of the sun in its daily trek across the sky, and Artemis with his sister and counterpart, goddess of night and the moon.  

The flames dancing around the boy's golden hair made it glow like a glorious sunrise, while the girl's dark locks and charcoal make-up perfectly complemented him.  They were day and night, twin siblings and celestial rivals.  What Gracen wouldn't have given to have both of them at that moment...  He sent two dozen roses to each of their stylists, Portia and Cinna, as a thank-you.

Later he would think of that as the day that light came into his life, and he began warring against the darkness to keep it.

When he watched the 16-year-old perform for the Gamemakersfor his rating, Gracen was mesmerized by the boy's muscles and strength.  Like Apollo, he was the Greek ideal of the _kouros_ \-- a 'beardless youth' who represented the perfect athlete, mature enough to have developed a man's muscles but not yet the body hair.  That was Gracen's ideal as well, and why he loved the Hunger Games.  He thought all the tributes should be 16 or 17, and that they should engage in more feats of strength, preferably in the nude as they did in antiquity.  The whole killing thing was really superfluous, as were the youngsters and the girls, who seemed like empty-calorie appetizers to be consumed before the main course arrived.

And now, more than a year since that first encounter, Gracen sits next to the sleeping youth who has rarely left his thoughts over the intervening months.  Peeta's face is gaunt and pale beneath all the discoloration.  His eyes are ringed with dark circles, the skin sunken and hollow.  His lips are dry and cracked.  There are bloodshot patches and bruises all over his skin, down his arms to his wrists, which are covered with bandages now, but Gracen saw them before, chafed raw from bondage and struggle.  As much as he'd rather see Peeta dressed in something other than this ugly hospital gown, he's grateful that something covers his chest, because he couldn't bear to see any more burns and bruises.

Gracen remembers that the nurse put out some ointment for Peeta's lips on the tray table.  He opens the tube and squeezes some onto his finger, then gently smooths it over the broken skin, afraid to rub too hard.  Warm breath from Peeta's nostrils blows softly against his hand.  

That's all he can do.  What should be the thrill of being able to touch those lips is overwhelmed by sadness and a sense of helplessness.  He feels, in some ways, like he was too late.  But then, it could have been worse.  If this was what they were able to do to him in three weeks...  And it couldn't have been even three weeks.  They would have questioned him first, to see what they could get out of him the easy way.  And there was the video they recorded of him stating his support for the Capitol and opposition to the rebels.  So maybe two weeks.  When was it going to stop?  Were they planning to beat him and starve him to death?

Gracen's Pocketron buzzes, a welcome distraction.  It's his mother again.  

"I'm fine," he automatically says when he answers.

"Hello to you, too.  How's Peeta?"

"Still asleep.  I'll let you know if anything changes."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?  I can sit with him if you need a break.  Are you hungry?  Do you want me to bring you something to eat?"  His mother has a habit of asking run-on questions.  He's learned to wait until she's finished and then pick the one he wants to answer.

"I'm fine.  They have a room menu."   _And I'm 28 and don't need my mommy to hold my hand._

"All right.  I love you.  I'm proud of you.  I know this isn't easy."

"I love you, too."

As he hangs up, he thinks again about having someone hold his hand.  The thought is comforting.

He reaches out and places a hand on Peeta's, but he's afraid to grasp it, afraid of messing with the array of tubes and monitors that run in and out of him.  There are fewer wires on the other side of the bed, and no I.V. tube, so he grabs his chair and moves around to that side.  He takes Peeta's hand and intertwines their fingers.  That feels good.  After a moment he lifts the hand to his lips and kisses it, but then he remembers the shoulder dislocation.  He gently lays Peeta's arm back down and scoots the chair up toward the head of the bed.  He strokes his fingers over Peeta's cheek.  

_My beautiful boy.  What have they done to you?_

Gracen was scared.  He had to admit that to himself.  His certainty was starting to waver.  A doctor had come to inform him that some of Peeta's "treatment" -- as they so euphemistically called it -- might have compromised his bladder.  There was another surgery they could perform that might help patch it up.  Might and might.  That was too many 'might's for him, and he told the doctor he'd think about it.  He was just now realizing that he was responsible for Peeta's medical decisions.  He had to decide on the state of Peeta's bladder, which looked to be functioning quite well, judging from the plentiful yellow contents of the bag hanging on the side of the bed.  All of the intravenous fluids must have been doing him good.  How many surgeries is this going to take?  

Part of Gracen actually enjoyed it, the intimacy of it.  It was like they were married, family; Peeta was bound to him, belonged to him.  He felt powerful being the official caretaker of something so precious.  But he also realized that he had no idea what Peeta's emotional state was going to be when he woke up.

One of the things he loved about Peeta was his resilience.  Gracen had met several victors in the first year after their Games, and at best they could be described as shell-shocked, even the Careers.  Yet judging from what he had seen of Peeta, he hadn't lost his bright spirit.  He still found joy in life.  Would that still be true, Gracen wondered, after another Games -- an unprecedented second Games -- plus the weeks of "treatment," plus the loss of his family and district?  

The family issue brought home just how young Peeta is.  Not yet 18.  With no living parents, Gracen could legally adopt him.  And he had considered that option, if that was what it took to get Peeta away from Snow.  His parents even offered to adopt Peeta.  But the lawyers came up with an alternative, thankfully.  Gracen wanted a partner, not a little brother or a son.

His so-called friends aren't helping matters any.  He shouldn't have told anyone, but he had to explain why he's taking time off from work when everyone is in crisis mode.  Sure enough, one of the guys called him to give him shit.

"Hey, Avi," he said, using the nickname Gracen was given in high school because his last name was such a mouthful.  "We hear congratulations are in order.  The gang wants to throw you a party and get you some gifts now that you finally get to bring that kid home.  But we're not sure -- would this be more of a _bridal_ shower or more of a _baby_ shower... or both?"  In the background, they're all laughing.

"Fuck. You. All."

Of course, his friends have a right to be pissed off.  None of them would get away with leaving work right now.  Most of them are sleeping at the office.   But then, they probably still get more sleep than Gracen has had in the past three weeks.  Ultimately, he knows why his friends are assholes.  Those are the people who get him; they speak the same language.   _We are the company we keep._  And he tends not to trust people who are nice to him.  The only people he wants to be nice to him are the ones he's paying.

But he doesn't care what his friends think.  He doesn't care what anyone thinks... except for Peeta. What would he think of this arrangement?  Would he simply be grateful to be liberated?  What if he questions why?  When should Gracen tell him about his feelings?  Should he wait until he has some evidence of Peeta's... interest?  The testing will help, but they can't start that until Peeta is fully awake.  And what if the testing shows that he has no tendencies?

The guy hails from District 12, a backwards place where they probably do not have much appreciation for the sexuality spectrum.  The type of place where the men are men and the women are women and anyone who doesn't fit that mold is forced to live their life in the shadows.   _Hillbillies. Uncivilized barbarians_ ... _no matter what Plutarch says._  And he shouldn't be thinking about Plutarch anyway.  Plutarch is a traitor.  Plutarch had too much of a soft spot for the districts, and now because of him, the whole system could come crashing down.     

Gracen takes a deep breath.  He needs to calm himself.  He has to focus on the plan.  If there is one thing that he has absolute faith in, besides his family, it's his programming skills.  He reaches into his case and pulls out the device.  They call it a ‘control panel.’  It's a seven-by-seven inch screen.  And it's the one thing he's sure can help both him _and_ Peeta.

He stands up to stretch his legs.  He wants to walk around, but he doesn't want to leave Peeta's bedside.  The painkillers still flow down the I.V. tube into Peeta's arm, but the medical staff and Gracen have decided to wean him off of the sedatives and start replacing them with antidepressants.  That means he could wake up at any moment.

Gracen gazes at the slack face slumbering peacefully with deep, nasally breaths flowing in and out between slightly parted lips.   He lays his hand against Peeta's cheek and leans down to kiss his forehead.  "I love you, Peeta" he whispers.

++++

Peeta wakes again to the bright light.  He tries to focus on the ceiling, but he realizes that the ceiling lamps are actually quite faint.  This light has to be something else.  It's not the bright light they shine in his eyes to blind him in the cell.  This new light doesn't scare him.  It's something warmer, something familiar.  He turns his head toward its source, and as his eyes adjust, he sees ... a window.  There's a window.  Light from the outside.

 _Sunlight._  Long beams stretch across the room.  Real, natural light.  Peeta can't believe it.  It feels like months since he's seen the sun.  How did it get here?  Where is he?  He's lying in a bed, in what looks like a hospital room, but it's different.  And something else is different.  Feels different.  Where is the pain?  There isn't any pain.  He again has the feeling of floating.  For a second he thinks he might be dead.  

"Peeta?"  

He looks toward the source of the man's voice, and a figure walks up beside the bed.  Peeta squints at him, his eyes still adjusting.  He can't really see the man, and he can't tell if he recognizes the voice.  Everything is so hazy...

"Are you having trouble seeing?  Do you want me to close the blinds?"

 _No!_ That's the last thing he wants.  He struggles to find his voice, to make sure the light doesn't go away.  "No," he rasps.  He doesn't recognize his own voice.  His throat is sticky, scratchy.  It's sort of like pain.  Is the pain coming back?  He moves his hand up to his throat.

"Water," the indistinguishable man says.  "You need water."  He moves away and comes back holding a plastic cup and a straw.  His fingers are long and the nails are painted an iridescent blue like the sky just after sunset.  He holds the straw up to Peeta's lips.  

Yes, he definitely wants the water.  He can recognize the burn in his throat now.  Thirst.  He tries to drink, but lying on his back, it's not that easy.  He needs to put his head up.  He presses his elbows into the bed to push himself up, but he doesn't get very far.

"Just lie back," the man says.  "I can raise you up."  There's a soft buzzing sound, and the back of the bed begins to rise.  Peeta takes the straw between his lips and sucks. The water is deliciously cool and runs down his parched throat like a waterfall massage.  And then he realizes that he can hold the cup.  Both his arms are free.  Does that mean there's no pain today?  He sips more water.  It's such sweet relief.  He can't stop, but drinks and drinks until the cup is empty.

"I'll get you some more," he hears the man say.  

As the man pours more water, a woman appears in the doorway.  "You're doing quite well on your own," she says to the man.  "You didn't even call us for help."

"I was going to get you as soon as I got him some water.  He's very thirsty."  

"I can see that.  If you've got things under control, I'll go get the doctor."  She goes away.

As Peeta sips more water he notices that the man is still holding his hand under the cup as if Peeta might drop it.  He looks up to see that the man is watching him intently.  Peeta's vision is now clear enough that he can make out the color of the almond-shaped eyes, though it's the indeterminate hue that usually gets called hazel.  Green and brown turn to purple or gold depending on how the light hits, as if the eyes can't decide what color they want to be.  They're lined with a dark plum color.  The man's mop of hair is also a potpourri of color, dark brown and blonde and red, with a few blue streaks thrown in the mix.  It falls around his face as he leans down toward Peeta.  The people who work at the hospital don't have unruly hair like that.

The eyes peer into Peeta's as if they're searching for something, some recognition.

"I'm Gracen," the man says.  "Gracen Avanknar."  When he stands up straight, he's tall and lean but just a bit stooped, like the height came to him before the muscles to hold it up.  He starts to hold out his hand as if he wants to shake hands with Peeta but then decides that that would be awkward, which it would be, since Peeta holds a cup of water in one hand, and his other arm is attached to tubes and a plastic clip thing is attached to his finger.  So the man instead grasps the bedside railing and smiles tentatively like he wants to say something else but is waiting for some response from Peeta.  

He's dressed in expensive clothes, stylish, also not like the people at the hospital.  He wears a blue silk shirt and a brown leather jacket and a platinum choker necklace.  One earring, a pointed silver stud.  Peeta thinks he must be one of the people from the government, the people with the questions.  But they usually come in groups and keep their computers out for taking notes, and it has been a while since any of them bothered to introduce themselves.  Eventually everyone stopped pretending.

It doesn't matter who he is.  Peeta knows that.  Earlier he might have thought to be nice to this man who brought sunlight and water.  But the sunlight and the water and the floaty pain medication will all go away as soon as Peeta fails to tell him what he wants to know.  All he can do is take in as much as he can while it lasts.  So he turns to the window and tries to see if he can make out any other signs of nature, like a tree or a cloud.  But all he can see is another building.

Then a burst of color catches the corner of his eye, and he tilts his head back toward a bedside table.  On it stands a large bouquet of big, beautiful flowers in shades of orange and purple and blue.  Tall pistils shoot out, surrounded by frothy amber flecks of pollen.  There are tropical flowers with long necks that blossom into draping petals with dots and stripes and intricate patterns.  Each flower is a work of art.  Peeta is fascinated by them.

"Those are for you," says the man.  It's an odd thing to say.  Who would send him flowers?  Unless...  

And then a bitter-cold chill sweeps through him, and against his will, against whatever drugs have helped him suppress it, he recalls his last encounter with Snow in the dark cell.  This is exactly the kind of sick, ostentatious display that Snow would make.  Peeta feels nauseated, and he curls forward as if to vomit.

"What's wrong?" asks the man.  He puts his hand on Peeta's back.  "Are you in pain?"

Peeta struggles to calm his breathing long enough to ask, "Who are they from?"  His voice scratches like a bad recording.

"Why?  Do they bother you?  I can take them away."

"Who?" Peeta tries again.  He's used to his questions not getting answers, but he can't help asking anyway.  "Did _he_ send them?"  He can't bring himself to say the name.

"No... No."  There's a pause.  "I brought them."

Peeta leans back against the bed, still breathing fast.  The man with the hazel eyes moves his hand from Peeta's back to his upper arm.  Peeta looks at him.  There's something vaguely familiar about him, but it's hard to tell.  His only distinctive feature is his eyes.  The rest -- nose, cheekbones, chin -- look to be chosen from the same cosmetic catalog popular with the elites that Peeta has met before.  The kind that, Haymitch told him, get redone every five years as the fads change.  He calls it 'Capitol face.'  

But since this man has demonstrated a willingness to answer questions, it seems worth asking: "Who are you?"

"I'm Gracen," the man repeats.  But he clearly knows this is not the information Peeta is looking for.  "I'm... I brought you here, from that place where they were holding you.  I'm here to --"

He's interrupted by a loud voice from the doorway.  "Hi, there!"  

A heavy-set, dark-skinned woman in a white coat walks in.  She has a cloud of silver-blue hair on her head matched by cat-eye glasses bejeweled in blue.  Peeta thinks the glasses must be what she wears instead of make-up, since he doesn't think anyone in the Capitol actually needs glasses.  "I'm Doctor Adderwall.  Looks like we've got some tests scheduled for you now that you're awake."

Peeta looks up at Gracen again.  He has even more questions now.  He's been moved somewhere new?  Why?  He's surprised to see a flush of red creeping up the man's face.

Gracen looks at him again.  "Peeta, they're going to ask you some questions."

Peeta instinctively recoils.  He thought the questions were done.  He should've known this break from the pain was too good to be true.  His heart starts pounding, sending a throbbing up to his head and setting off a loud fit of beeping from the monitors.

Gracen leans over him, laying a hand on his arm and another on his chest.  "It's okay, it’s okay.  These are just questions about your health, to see how you're doing.  It's just an assessment."

Why is this guy comforting him?  Why is anyone caring about his feelings at all?  Peeta tries one more time.  "Who _are_ you?"

Gracen swallows, the redness still creeping up his face.  His hand on Peeta's arm squeezes slightly.  "I'm a friend, Peeta.  I'm here for you.  I'll explain the rest later, after you see the doctor.  Just know that... if you need anything, I'll be right nearby."

Peeta watches him as he walks out the door, turning back at the doorway with another small smile before disappearing.

 


	3. Testing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments! And thank you again to my brilliant betas, papofglencoe, JavisTG, and Everlarked. I have the first 12 chapters written (plus the last three), so I will try to start putting one out every week.
> 
>  

_ When did I become a babbling idiot? _

First the screw-up about the questions. Why was he dumb enough to tell Peeta they were going to ask him questions? Gracen doesn't know a lot about what happened to the poor kid over the last few weeks, but he knows that the main thrust of it was interrogation. And that the failure to provide the information they wanted did not turn out well for Peeta. 

But the larger screw-up... Gracen practiced the speech a thousand times in his head, how to explain it all to Peeta, and then when it came time to actually  _ say _ it he choked. But even  _ looking _ at Peeta was devastating. Gracen was so eager to see those brilliant blue eyes open, and wasn’t prepared to find them bleary and bloodshot.   

Maybe it’s his lack of experience at feeling like there's anything at risk. He doesn’t get nervous.  He's used to getting what he wants simply because of who he is or what he can do in a digital space. He thinks about what Pidwick said to him in the bathroom about being Armand Avanknar's son. "Best job in the world." Maybe Gracen really is nothing more than an over-indulged rich kid. Before Peeta came into his life, he never had to work for anything. 

He heads down to the room set up for him to hear audio of the exam. They're still on basic medical stuff -- pain and discomfort levels, hearing and vision. Then the doctor asks some questions to assess Peeta’s mental clarity. She asks if he knows where he is. What month it is. He doesn't know. She tells him it's August. He asks her who Gracen is, and she says he's "a nice man who got you out of a bad situation and brought you here so we can take care of you. Any other questions you have, you'll have to ask  _ him _ ."  

They move on to preexisting issues, allergies, childhood illnesses and family history. With a disturbing factuality in his voice, he states that his parents' cause of death was "burned to death." Gracen suddenly wishes he hadn't turned on the audio. But perhaps Peeta's ability to answer succinctly is a sign that the anti-depressants have kicked in.

When the question-and-answer period ends, Dr. Adderwall tells Peeta that they're going to give him a physical exam that includes a cognitive assessment. A nurse will be coming in to get him set up for that. Gracen decides this is a good time to get another cup of coffee and check his messages. He can't keep ignoring work forever.

Dr. Adderwall finds him on his way back. "We've got a problem."

"What's wrong?"

"Well, I'd really rather not think too much about this, but given where he's been, I can come up with some reasons why he might be upset that people want to attach electrodes to his genitals."

Gracen's face falls. Once again, he's forgotten to think about how all this looks to Peeta after what he's been through.  _ Poor Peeta. I'm such an idiot. _

"Can you give him something to help him relax?"

"If we sedate him, we won't get as accurate a result, and he might fall asleep.  We need him completely eyes-open and alert."

Gracen sighs. "Maybe we should wait. I don't want to traumatize him any further."

"Maybe you can help. He's asking for you."

"He is?"

Gracen goes into Peeta's room. A bunch of monitors have been wheeled in. His gown has been removed, a sheet pulled up to his waist. As predicted, Peeta's chest is not something Gracen wanted to see -- not in its current state anyway. He swallows hard as he takes in the marks and  bruises, the surgical incisions, and then manages to redirect his gaze to Peeta's eyes. That's not too hard, since it's those dazzling blues that drew him in in the first place.

Peeta looks up at him. "I think I know who you are. I remember."

"You do?" Gracen is mystified at how Peeta would connect this with olives and a party.

"When I was at the... other hospital…” Peeta looks down, away, and swallows. "I heard your name. President Snow was there. He was trying to... I guess you'd say 'break' me." He goes quiet.

Gracen figures that's as far as Peeta wants to go down that road. He would say something in response, if he had any idea how to respond to that. So he shifts from one foot to the other, awkwardly standing a few feet away from the bed, until Peeta speaks again, emotion heating his voice:

"They told me that Katniss was dead. Then I think Snow screwed up and said she was alive."  Peeta looks back up at Gracen, his eyes quavering with fear and hope. "Is Katniss alive?"

Gracen can't tell if Peeta has lost his train of thought or if this has to do with remembering him, but he's not surprised that the question is at the forefront of his mind. "Yes, she is."  

Peeta closes his eyes, tilts his head back and lets out a long sigh. "Thank you," he breathes softly. It's unclear whether he's thanking Gracen for the answer or thanking the universe for sparing her.  

Either way, Gracen tries not to be too annoyed at how pleased Peeta looks. This is apparently the comfort he was looking for, and not a hand to hold or a bouquet of exotic flowers.

Peeta's eyes fly open again. "Is she safe?"

"She's in District 13. I can't say how safe she is, but she escaped from the arena."

Peeta smiles. An actual smile. "Did anyone else escape?"

"We'll have time for questions later, preferably in a less public place. Right now you have tests to get done, and you said that you remember me."

Peeta thinks for a moment. "What did you say your name was?"

"Gracen."

"Your last name?"

"Avanknar."

He nods slowly, putting something together in his head. "After I caught Snow admitting Katniss was alive, he was... furious. I thought he might kill me. I kind of hoped he would..." He has no idea how much this cuts Gracen to the core. "There was a doctor, a bad doctor, the one who would... who was in charge of hurting me, and Snow wanted him to do something to me... something…” Peeta trails off again and shakes his head, unable to come up with a word bad enough, apparently. “And then Snow stopped him. Said they better not do it. Something about me having a protector who was there, and they had to stop.”

“Really?” This sparks something in Gracen’s memory. That day at the ugly hospital, final discussion of the contract. He knew they were stalling. They weren't ready to give Peeta up. But Gracen is so grateful he was there.

“Yeah. They were going to have to give me up. There was a name. Snow swore when he said it. I think it was Avanknar."

Gracen smiles at Peeta, nods. "That would be me, or maybe my father. He's the one who has leverage over Snow. Snow probably swears every time he says his name."  

But Peeta's not done. "I heard a voice once when I woke up later, I think that was here. And you were talking about making sure I wasn't in any pain."

"Yes."

"Why?"

_ Because I love you. _  Gracen steps closer to the bed and rests his hands and coffee on the railing. He's glad the coffee is still hot, because it's warming him and helping him stay calm.  Also, Peeta's words are warming him. As much as he hates to think of what they were going to do to him, what they thought would actually cross the line after everything they'd done, Gracen's glad that he was able to stop it, and he's very glad that Peeta now seems to be accepting that Gracen is on his side.  Maybe he could manage to explain this time.  

"I know you probably don't remember this, but we met at a party at the President's Mansion when you were here after your Victory tour. You were admiring some stuffed olives, and said you just thought of olive as a color in your paint set. So I got you to try one. You opened your mouth and… I thought you were really... cool. Funny. And smart. Not at all what I thought people from District 12 were like. We talked for quite a while."  

"I think I remember. I meet so many people, and I tend to..." He looks up at Gracen but doesn't finish the thought. "I remember the olive. Foods that are colors have a special place in my heart. But there must be more to it than that.”

Even in his beleaguered state, Peeta is no dummy. Gracen is going to have to spill more. “So then the Quell was announced, and… You know Plutarch Heavensbee?"

He sees a dark cloud pass over Peeta's eyes, and with an inner wince of pain he realizes that Peeta has been asked this question before, probably many times, probably with a visit from the bad doctor when he didn't give the answer they wanted. Gracen has to remember to quit asking him questions. "I don't mean know him personally. I mean you know of him, that he was the Head Gamemaker for the Quarter Quell."

Peeta nods, the cloud not entirely passing from his eyes.

"He's a family friend, or,  _ was  _ a family friend. He used to work for my father. I've known him since I was a kid. Anyway, when the Quell was announced, everyone was upset, obviously, that the victors were going back in." He looks around, makes sure they're alone, lowers his voice. "Plutarch suggested it wasn't a coincidence. The victors were becoming a problem, inspiring the districts toward rebellion. He said the victors who didn't get selected for the Quell, plus the winner, would need protection, that you'd need -- he called it an 'advocate.'  He thought maybe I could be an advocate for you."

"And you were willing? Why?"

_ Because Plutarch knew. _ He must've intuited his  protégé 's feelings, since he did not seem surprised when asked what it would take to have the two pieces of paper in that selection bowl for the Quell both say 'Haymitch Abernathy' on them. "Because I could. I have the resources. I know all the power-brokers, or, at least, my father does. We have the leverage to protect you."

Peeta's brow furrows as he tries to take this in, as if it's almost too hard to process. "Aren't you risking a lot? Sounds like it would be better for you if you stayed away from me." In response to Gracen's shocked silence he adds, "I mean, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, I just... I mean..." He pauses. "Thank you." He reaches out and grasps Gracens arm.

Gracen smiles, a smile that goes all the way through him. This is the Peeta Mellark he recognizes, the boy who would set his own pain aside and consider the danger that this stranger is putting himself in. He puts his hand on Peeta's shoulder. To his surprise, Peeta reaches up and puts a hand on his.  

Gracen has never been a good interpreter of human emotion, of any unspoken language other than the sexual variety, and even  _ that _ is usually presented to him on a platter. It's possible that after all the suffering, Peeta is simply desperate for any connection or comfort. But Gracen likes to think that this is a sign that Peeta is still Peeta. Friendly. Warm. A natural at human interaction in a way that Gracen never could be. And if all of the pain and suffering has not destroyed who Peeta is, then any risk he is taking is worth it.

"I guess it was a risk. But I have my father behind me, and Panem can't run without him. Ninety percent of the software that runs our defenses comes from my father's designs." He decides not to mention that his father's designs also created the modern Hunger Games. "That's how I know you'll be safe with me."

Peeta closes his eyes and exhales. Gracen squeezes his hand but then lets go. He wants Peeta to feel safe and assured, but he doesn't want to seem too eager for physical contact.

"So what happens now?" asks Peeta, opening his eyes.

"Now, we make sure you're healthy, and then we get out of here. That's where the tests come in. We get that done, and then you can come home with me and finish your recuperation there. I've got a nice gym for your physical therapy, and we can--"

"But--  Sorry."  Peeta obviously wants badly to interrupt; his expression shifts immediately from apologetic to suspicious. "They said they're going to use electricity on me."  

Peeta's not interested in the future. He's focused on right now. For a split second, Gracen feels a pang of guilt for putting him through this. Trying not to grimace, his thoughts turn to annoyance.  _ Why were they dumb enough to tell him about the electricity? It's barely noticeable _ .  

"I know this all seems strange, but it's not painful. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you. They want to assess your mental and physical health, and that includes sexual health, which is mental and physical. Sexual dysfunctions can be a sign of bigger issues. So you'll wear this helmet, and it will be like a virtual reality experience. You'll see images and hear sounds and even smell some different scents. Sometimes it will ask you for verbal responses; sometimes it will just measure your physiological responses. Some of it will involve physical stimulation, with very low-current electrical pulses. But I promise you -- it's not painful. Quite the opposite, actually." Peeta doesn't need to know that the helmet is also mapping his brain to identify what stimulates his pleasure centers.

"You seem to know a lot about this."

"I've had tests like this done before, so, yeah, I know what I'm talking about. Try not to overthink it. Just relax and let everything happen naturally."

"But they want to hook up a lot of wires to me. All over. Even..." He looks up at Gracen and lowers his voice to just above a whisper. "They don't need to stick wires in my butt to check my sexual health."

_ Oh, Peeta, you have no idea _ . "Haven't you ever heard of a prostate exam? It's a standard part of a man's physical. That's how they check the prostate." What they’re checking it  _ for _ is another issue.

Peeta looks unconvinced.

"Listen, Peeta. You've had wires hooked up to you for the past two days, ever since I picked you up from that hellhole and brought you here. They're called 'leads.' They send signals to monitors to make sure you're okay. That's all most of these are for. It's all for making you better."

"You've been with me for two days?"

"Yes. Three if you count the day and night I spent at the other place waiting for them to release you. And since we've been here I've rarely left this room. I want you to feel safe."

"You slept here?"

Gracen nods and points across the room. "You see that chaise lounge? The back is adjustable. It folds down flat to make a bed. They bring me clean sheets every night. It's like a hotel."

"This must be a nice hospital."

"It's a deluxe room. We even have a bathroom with a six-head shower."

Peeta looks up at him again, a small smile playing at his lips. The last cloud fades away, and his blue eyes shine bright with gratitude and relief. "Thank you," he says again. There's something else in his eyes, some deeper emotion, something that looks like need.

Gracen responds to it without thinking. If he thinks, he’ll talk himself out of it. He bends down, one hand setting his coffee on the bedside table while his other arm circles around Peeta's back in an embrace. Peeta returns the hug as best he can; only one arm is free enough to wrap around Gracen, but he does lift the arm with the tubes attached enough to place a hand on his side and grasp his jacket.  

"You're safe now, Peeta."  _ You're with me. _ It feels so good to have this boy in his arms, but he tries not to hold the injured body too tightly. He's surprised by how long Peeta holds on to him.  

Gracen finally lets go and looks at him intently. "Let's get this done. I'll be right outside if you need me."

Peeta holds onto his arm. "Can you stay? I'd rather you stay here so you can stop them if it starts to hurt."

Gracen nods. If that's what Peeta wants, he's not going to object. "Let me just ask the doctor if that's okay."

He smiles at Peeta and heads back out to the hallway. An aide goes to find Dr. Adderwall, who  tells him his presence won't affect the results like sedation, so if it keeps him calm, it will help.  So long as Gracen doesn't touch him.

Gracen comes back in when the technician is finishing up the prep. Dressed plainly in blue scrubs, her hair tied up in a bun, she looks efficient and moves that way, too. She checks the three monitors that surround the bed, each with wires connected to Peeta, some coming in from the right, some from the left, and some from the foot of the bed. Peeta is on his side, so that wires can be attached front and back. Gracen is glad that the web of wires at least partially obscures the marks on Peeta's torso.  

There are leads taped to his head, neck, and chest -- one over each nipple and one lower and between them -- two attached just below his armpits, more on his abdomen and back. A clear piece of plastic shaped like a spoon sticks out over his eye to measure his eye movement. 

The lead wires from the monitor at the foot of the bed run underneath the sheets and can't be seen, but Gracen knows where they go. Some attach to the bottom of his foot and the back of his knee, others to his genitals, with a special sleeve around his penis. At least two connect to the orifice behind the genitals, outside and in, while others occupy the space between.

Gracen walks around the bed to where Peeta can see him, then sits in a chair. He gives Peeta a thumbs up and asks, "Are you ready?"

Peeta returns the thumbs up, though the strained look on his face indicates that he's still nervous. 

The technician picks up the helmet. "Lift your head, please," she says. Peeta cocks his head sideways up from the pillow, and the technician slips the helmet onto him. It covers his eyes and nose, but Gracen can still see his mouth. The visor will not only show him pictures and video, it will also record his facial expressions for analysis.

"Does that feel comfortable, Peeta?" she asks loudly.

"It's fine," is all he says, laying his head back down.

"Okay, we're going to begin."

Peeta grasps the railing of the bed, holding on tight. Gracen wishes he could hold his hand, but he knows he can't. He wishes he could say 'I love you,' but he can't do that either. 

The tech taps one of the screens, and the monitors beep as the program starts up. After a moment, Gracen can hear faint noises coming from inside the helmet. He wishes he could see what Peeta's seeing. Several minutes pass without much response from Peeta other than short answers like "good" and "no." Then the verbal portion of the exam takes a back seat.

It's obvious to Gracen when the electrodes are activated, sending gentle current through the wires that run under the covers. Peeta jerks slightly in surprise, his stomach tightening and his hips thrusting slightly forward. His breathing and heart rate pick up. Then his mouth opens and emits a few shallow gasps, then a soft moan. He bites his lip. Before long he starts to writhe. It would appear he's so lost in the experience he's either forgotten that anyone else is in the room, or doesn't care, or just can't help it.

This last thought gets Gracen very turned on. He shifts in his chair and adjusts himself, glad the technician has no interest in looking his way. It occurs to him that when he had this test done himself, he'd already had a lot of sexual experiences, whereas Peeta is probably experiencing most of these sensations for the very first time, and he's experiencing them via the most direct and effective delivery mechanism there is. 

That thought has Gracen feeling a bit jealous. He's developing mixed feelings about watching this, part of him enjoying what's happening to Peeta, to see him experiencing pleasure after so much pain, but part of him is fighting an overwhelming urge to rip back that sheet and start doing the job himself. As soon as he can get away, he's going to need to get to the restroom and relieve his building tension in the worst way. Perhaps he should've gotten Marti's number.

And then Peeta twitches and cries out softly as if in pain. Gracen jumps up. He snaps at the technician, "Stop! What's happening?"

The tech replies calmly. "It's fine. That was the wire in his urethra. I thought he might be a little raw because we just removed his urine catheter. But it won't affect the results.” 

"But is he in pain? Should we have waited?"

"Relax. I know what I’m doing. His erection is coming along just fine, and anything that slows his arousal is good at this stage. As soon as he orgasms we have to stop."

Gracen sits back down, feeling guilty again. His own erection seems unhappy now, so that helped at least.

The technician notices his angst. "Look," she says, pointing to one of the screens. "See where the green is lit up?" Gracen stands up and moves over to see a scan of Peeta's brain. "That's a very stimulated pleasure center. The pain was fleeting, not enough to kill his buzz."

Gracen smiles. "I didn't know that was a technical term."

"I can tell from how developed his pain centers are that this is the best he's felt in a long time."  

_ At least in a few weeks _ , Gracen thinks. Before that, Peeta was making out with Katniss on the beach, and he seemed to enjoy that a lot. His outfit didn't hide much, especially if you were at the control center and privy to the camera angles that the viewers at home didn't get.

Fortunately, the catheter incident is the only time Peeta exhibits anything resembling discomfort.  The whole test takes over an hour, and by the end of it, Gracen is actually feeling kind of bored, just watching Peeta react to things that Gracen can't see or hear.  At one point Peeta must've become so relaxed he fell into some kind of stupor, because the tech presses a button and speaks into a microphone. "Open your eyes, Peeta. Try to keep them open as much as you can." That's the last time she speaks before it's over.  

"And we're done," she announces. The monitors beep in unison. She sets a hand on Peeta's arm and says loudly, "We're finished, Peeta. I'm going to take the helmet off now." She removes it and smooths Peeta's hair back down for him. "How are you doing, young man?"

He blinks several times and looks up at her. "I'm okay. That was... interesting."

Gracen laughs. "Your next assessment might not compare. A physical therapist is coming to get you up and walking around. And if they sign off, you can be discharged tomorrow."

Peeta nods, then closes his eyes again and exhales slowly. He probably needs a rest after all that.

++++

But he doesn't get to rest for very long. A nurse comes in and says he's been lying down for too long, and they want to get him out of the bed and sitting up in a chair. Gracen needs a bathroom break and another cup of coffee. He offers to get something for Peeta, but the nurse informs him that Peeta is not to have any coffee until they ascertain that his urinary continence has returned. It's hard to tell if Peeta is embarrassed  -- there's still a faint gloominess about his demeanor -- but Gracen feels sorry for the kid anyway. It must be awkward to have strangers discussing your bladder, especially when one of them is not even a medical professional. But then, as a tribute -- twice -- Peeta's probably used to his body no longer belonging to him. At least they're not discussing him for sport.

When Gracen returns with his coffee, the physical therapist is already getting Peeta up from the bed. She's more hip than the technician. Her hair is roped and twisted on her head, with gossamer butterflies nestled throughout. Her scrubs are form-fitting and have a bright design. When she helps Peeta stand, Gracen tries not to check out his ass through the back of the hospital gown but fails. 

His prosthetic leg has been reattached, but Peeta's limbs are so stiff it takes him a moment to be able to walk. Gracen goes over to stand on his other side, and when he stumbles, Gracen catches him.  

"Thanks," says Peeta.  

"No problem."  

Then the therapist ties his gown in the back and has him walk down the hallway, his I.V. pole coming along for the ride. Gracen walks next to him, pushing the pole. Peeta keeps one hand on Gracen's arm and one hand on the therapist to steady himself. She says he's doing well, but she wants to keep him in the hospital a couple more days for therapy. Peeta frowns at that.   

She flirts with Gracen, and he ignores her, although it does make him wonder if she always does up her hair with accoutrements or if she knew he would be there. Gracen tells her they’re leaving and will do PT on an outpatient basis.

He and Peeta eat their evening meal together in the room. Gracen's ordered off this menu so many time he's sick of it, but Peeta hasn't eaten a full meal in a while, and he's voracious. The doctor gave him a green light to eat whatever he wants, so he orders a ton of food. Gracen’s happy to see that he has an appetite, but does have to tell him to pace himself.  _ We'll have plenty of time to fatten you up. _

When Peeta's finally stuffed himself, and Gracen's done picking at his food, he knows he has to have the conversation he's been dreading. At some point Peeta's going to ask if he can leave the Capitol. Or worse --  _ not _ ask, and then try to leave.

"Peeta..."

"Yeah?"

"There's something else you need to know."

"There are a lot of things I need to know."

"I don't mean that. I know you have a lot of questions, and we'll get to that. But I need to tell you that there's a tracker in you to make sure you don't leave the Capitol."

"I know I have a tracker. They put trackers in all of us in the Games. See?" He shows Gracen the small scar on his arm. "It makes sense they wouldn't take it out this time."

"It's not that one. That one turned out to be removable. Johanna helped Katniss escape from the arena by cutting the tracker out of her arm."

"She did?"

"Yes."

"And Katniss was okay?"

"I'm assuming she got medical attention as soon as they got her out, but yes."

"I didn't think that was possible."

"Apparently the Gamemakers didn't, either. They're not taking any chances with you. This tracker was implanted surgically in your spine, so there's no way for you to remove it."

Peeta shrugs. "Either way, I'm stuck here. At least I'm not in that place anymore. Thanks to you."

Gracen nods. "I thought you'd be more upset."

"I went into the Quell prepared to die. All I cared about was that Katniss lived. And she did. And if only one of us can be free, I'm glad it's her. You know what they say, ‘The caged bird doesn’t sing.’”

“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.”

“Whatever. It sounds right.”

_ Still the hopeless romantic, sacrificing himself for his lady love. _ Gracen has no interest in discussing Katniss any further, so he looks around for the television remote. "Is there a show you like to watch?" 

"Would there be news on?"

"I wouldn't call it 'news.' If you want to know what's happening with the rebels, you won't get it from that screen."

"Then I'd rather watch the sunset. I haven't seen one in a long time."

Gracen helps Peeta up and walks him over to the window. They watch the long rays of golden sun turn orange and then red and electric pink and then disappear behind the candy-colored skyline of the Capitol. 

And now it's their last night in the hospital. "We go home tomorrow," he tells Peeta, who smiles as he rests back in the bed. A nurse injects something into his I.V. to relax him for sleep, and then lowers the back of his bed and turns down the lights. Peeta smiles up at Gracen and reaches out to take his hand in another gesture of gratitude. Gracen places his other hand over Peeta's, and then Peeta closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep with his hand still enveloped in that cocoon.

After a showering and brushing his teeth, Gracen exits the bathroom to find that the chaise lounge has been made up for him for the last time. He's glad to be rid of it; he didn't tell Peeta how uncomfortable it is, especially if you're used to the type of bedding that usually pillows and massages Gracen's exacting form. He dresses for bed and then lays out clothes for tomorrow: an outfit for himself and one he brought for Peeta. It's a blue pullover crewneck shirt, plain cotton briefs, and chinos. White socks and loafers. It's all lightweight and casual, perfect for late summer. The pants might be a little baggy, since Peeta's lost more weight than he anticipated, but they'll do for now, and soon he'll take Peeta on the mother of all shopping trips, to buy him a whole wardrobe and accessories and toiletries and entertainment and whatever else he wants.  A Pocketron, definitely. Maybe they'll wait on a car. He doesn't want Peeta to be too independent too soon. And Gracen loves to drive. He can't wait to have Peeta riding shotgun with him.

He walks back to the bed. "Peeta..." he says softly, making sure he's asleep. Long, blonde lashes remain unmoved against the darkened skin under his eyes. Gracen bends and kisses him softly on his semi-healed lips that are returning to their pink suppleness. "Good night, sweet boy. I'm glad you had a good day. There will be many more like it." He presses his nose to Peeta's, lingering there for several moments, breathing in Peeta's warm, slow breath. He knows this might be the last time he can be this close for a long time.

Finally Gracen returns to his own bed and picks up his Pocketron, changing the alarm to wake him a little earlier. He hates to leave Peeta alone, but he thinks he can get in a run before Peeta wakes up. He really has a lot of pent-up emotion and excitement to let out, not to mention nerves over what Dr. Adderwall is going to tell him tomorrow.

Now all that's left is to get the test results and see what their life together can be...


	4. Fifty Shades of Gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In the Capitol, sex is like the Hunger Games – the customs of Ancient Rome updated with the latest technology. There are no limits when it comes to what might thrill and entertain – especially when there’s no limit to your bank account.**
> 
> **As with the Games, the youth of the Districts are the most popular toys of titillation. If they win, they simply become more expensive...**
> 
>   
> 

The office of Dr. Helvetica Adderwall is on the eighth floor of the hospital, in the department known only as Special Services. Plush couches and elegant sculptures fill the waiting room, with one wall entirely taken up by an aquarium of tropical fish. There’s a well-stocked coffee-and-beverages bar, but nothing to identify the type of services offered here.  

Just after Gracen checks in at the desk, a woman comes to escort him to a computer room, where a young male technician greets him with an eager smile. No scrubs here; he wears a tight, forest-green suit and silver points on his ears that make him look elfin. His ID badge says Victus, but he asks Gracen to call him Vick.

"Mr. Avanknar, I already have several options laid out for your services package that I'm sure you are going to love!"  He almost shouts the word 'love.'  "I understand you're interested in customizing a personal attendant?"

"Um... something like that."

"Fabulous! Normally if it's a subjugant you want, we need that person here for consent purposes, but I understand you have a legal dispensation."

"Yes," Gracen replies uncomfortably. "I've submitted all the paperwork."

"That is just _ wonderful _ ! I hope you didn't go to too much trouble. We don't judge here." He winks at Gracen and continues, quite chipper, "Now, since this is your first digital subjugation with us, let me introduce you to the basics. There's a Standard Package and the Elite Package, which includes some services that are not available a la carte. All of the options are listed in your control panel if you go to the main dashboard and choose 'Service Menu.' Did you bring your panel with you?"

"Yeah, I've got it." Gracen takes the device out of his bag. "I'm a programmer myself, so I've already been doing some upgrades and customization."

Vick frowns. "Oh, dear. I wouldn't if I were you. We don't support anything other than the standard software. Wouldn't want you to violate your warranty!"

"You guys do seem really proprietary with this. I don't see why I can't just run this program on my Pocketron."

"Oh, no, we are very specific with this interface. You can't put it on a mobile communications device. It's one thing to accidentally butt-call someone. It's quite another to accidentally paralyze your lover while they're crossing the street!" He he puts a hand to his chest and chuckles.

"Paralyze?"

"Yes, that's included in the Elite Package. We implant two paralysis triggers in the spine. The full control option allows you to paralyze the subjugant instantly at any time, either just the lower or upper body, or both together. Nothing above the neck, though. We don't want people choking on their tongues."

Gracen stares at him, incredulous.  

Vick hastily adds, "We can do a separate vocal paralysis if you're interested in that, otherwise you'll need to go with manual gagging. It sounds old-fashioned, but a lot of our clients swear by it. What's the phrase... an 'oldie but goodie'?" He smiles and winks again.

Gracen shakes his head. "While that sounds intriguing, that's not really the kind of service I'm looking for."

"What are you looking for? Tell me what your heart desires. You'll be amazed what we can do!  No request is ever considered out-of-bounds." His smile falters slightly as he thinks of something. "Oh!  But I must add one teeny-tiny caveat. I have a message from President Snow's office informing us that your subjugant already has a tracker in his spine, for government purposes, so we have to be careful to work around that."

"They contacted you directly?"

"Yes. It was very kind of them to give us a warning, given what will happen to him if that tracker is tampered with or touched in any way."

Gracen takes a deep breath, calming himself. Of course Snow is keeping track of everything he's up to. "That's fine. I don't need you to do anything to his spine. I'm interested in more of a...  _ consensual _ relationship with this person, or at least I'd like to know what my chances are. We had tests done to see if he... how he... might respond."

"Well I just handle technical here. Dr. Adderwall deals with all the psycho/emotional stuff. She'll have his test results."

"But I thought there was a technical process, a program that could help, I don't know...  _ encourage _ him? That's what I inquired about."

"I'm sorry, I'm just a wee bit confused. You want him to cooperate willingly? If he belongs to you, why would you need that?  We can give you everything you need to control him."

"I don't want to control him, or hurt him or dominate him or whatever. I want him to be happy. I just want him to be happy with  _ me _ ."

Vick looks him up and down, realizing something. He taps his fingers together and smiles conspiratorially. "Oh, I see... You want a _ love _ potion." He drawls out the word 'love' like it has three syllables.

"Is that what you call it?"

"Wouldn't it be delicious if there were a computer program that can make people fall in love?"

"Isn't there?"

"Oh, there is... if you can afford it."

"That's not going to be a problem."

Vick nods, intrigued. "Like I said, Dr. Adderwall handles the psychological stuff. If she approves you, you come back to me. And we can program that device in your hands with magic!"

++++++

Dr. Adderwall's office is a little more illustrative than the waiting room. On the wall are two anatomical posters, one diagramming the female sexual organs, the other diagramming the male. On her desk is a framed photo of her family: a man with salt-and-pepper hair flanked by a boy and a girl in their late teens, their dark skin making their gleaming white smiles shine even brighter.

The doctor sits behind her desk, in front of a window that offers a beautiful view of the park below and the Capitol buildings that frame it. Gracen sits before her. In the sunlight, he can see that her silvery hair sparkles with a fine pale-blue glitter. He wants to find some of that hairspray.

"So you don't want him to be a sex slave, I mean, ' _ personal attendant _ '?" she asks pointedly.

"No. Like I told the technician, I'm not looking for him to perform services for me. I'm not his owner; I'm his friend."

"You have a non-consensual subjugation order." She tilts her head down and eyes him over the tops of her glasses. "You're not his friend. Best dispense yourself of that notion right now."

"I thought you guys don't judge."

"I'm a doctor. My concern is for my patient, and what he needs is healing."

"I'm his sole legal guardian. Most of the paperwork is just to establish that I make his medical decisions, and you share his health information with me."

She nods. "That much I understand.” She turns to her computer. “I can tell you that generally the test results are what I expected," she begins. "Cognitive testing, both from my personal assessment and from the technical analysis, shows a depressed, scared, traumatized young man."

"Aren't the anti-depressants helping with that?"

"To some extent, but it's only been a couple days. I recommend regular sessions with a psychotherapist as well as the medication. There's a lot of pain and uncertainty in there to deal with, as you can imagine."

Gracen swallows and nods -- but he  _ can't _ imagine. His life of safety and privilege is the opposite of everything Peeta has known. And to a certain extent, he's been programmed not to understand, not to empathize with the pain of others...  

It's the inurement to human suffering bred in the children of the Capitol so that they can enjoy the Hunger Games.

Dr. Adderwall continues, "Without a baseline to compare, it's hard to say to what extent his sexual interest has been affected, although, for a 17-year-old boy, even a depressed libido still runs pretty high. Much of it is an automated system, independent of everything else. Mother Nature saw to that."

"I was in the room, and it seemed like his responsiveness was there."

"You're not wrong. It might not be on his mind, but when the idea is introduced, the stimulation..."

"So it's good news?"

"You told me you had two main questions. In answer to those, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?"

"I want the good news."

"Fine. His sexual response testing was through the roof."

Gracen brightens. "Really? What kind of response?"

"He did well across the board -- rectal, perineal, scrotum, obviously penis, but that goes without saying; I rarely see a 17-year-old with erectile dysfunction. Also very sensitive pudendal and anal nerve endings, as well as several other erogenous zones. You'll get a complete list."

Gracen leans forward. This is getting good. "So he has a g-spot."

"That's the term for one inside a vagina. What he has we call the 'p-spot,' since technically it's arousal due to stimulation of the prostate gland through the wall of the rectum."

"I'll keep calling it his g-spot, because I plan to plant my flag there."  

Adderwall raises her eyebrows. "Well, that brings us to the bad news... He's straight."

"Like straight-up straight? I didn't think they made those anymore."

"Maybe they do where he comes from."

"And the rectal sensitivity/g-spot...?"

"Unrelated. It's equally prevalent among both gay and straight men. Between 25 and 30 percent of both groups. Trust me, I get a lot of gay men in here looking for theirs."

"And occasionally a bisexual man," Gracen admits.

"Oh, I see…” She looks at him sympathetically. “Any luck?"

He gives her a wry smile. "Nope."

"Well, we can't all be so lucky."

"So what did Peeta test at? The number?"

"You're familiar with the spectrum?"

"Yeah."

"He's an 85."

"Wait... Isn't that borderline?"

"75 to 84 is borderline, not necessarily bisexual but what some might call 'bi-curious.' They're open-minded, not innately turned off or bothered by homosexuality like many heterosexuals are.  Of course, there's also a borderline range at the other end of the spectrum, from 16 to 25, which represents bi-curious homosexuals."

"But the 'borderlines' -- the straight ones -- still engage in same-sex stuff, right?"

"They might have a tryst or fling as a youthful experiment, but that's more common among women than men. There's an old line about how every woman is a lesbian at some point in college."

"Is that true?"

"No comment... But bear in mind; willingness to engage does not necessarily equate to bisexuality. There are heterosexuals who will engage in same-sex intimacy, as often occurs in gender-homogeneous situations like prison. A man can achieve orgasm with another man even while his preference is entirely for women. This test is psychological. It determines preference; it does not dictate behavior."

Gracen's having trouble reconciling the number with his memory of Peeta. "Here's the thing -- I met him once, at a party. He was flirting with me. I know what flirting looks like. People flirt with me a lot."

"Maybe you just  _ think _ they're flirting with you."

He eyes her coolly, his voice flat. "Let’s put aside the fact that I’m insanely hot. My father is the richest man in Panem. You think it's just my imagination?"

"Fair enough. But remember, the vast majority of people are heterosexual. That's how nature works, for the survival of the species. What's considered homosexual on this range is 1 to 15, but that represents only six percent of the population. The spectrum can be misleading because the range is so wide. But the majority of people are 85 and above. The gradations -- the  _ nuance _ \-- really only become important further down the spectrum, so that's why the range of bisexuality is between is 26 to 75. That's where the variance in preference becomes most useful."

"The gradations... they're not whole numbers. There are decimal points."

"Well, yes. That's the way these scales work. There's no zero, no perfect 100. No test, no matter how much we try to make it objective, is going to get that kind of result. Any decimals below 1 we round up, anything above 99 we round down. 50 is the middle of the range, but I've never seen a perfect 50/50 bisexual. Everyone has a preference one way or the other, at least slight."

"You're looking at one right now."

The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up as the surprise registers on her face. "You're a 50/50?"

"On the dot. Fifty point zero zero zero zero. They would only go out to four decimal places. I even took the test twice and got the same result. Maybe your metrics are more objective than you think."

"I'm not sure what to say. You seem dissatisfied with that result, but it sounds like it could be a great thing. You like men and women equally. That should make you easier to please."

"Sure, it's great, unless you were looking for an answer, and that wasn't it. Unless you thought finding a preference might help you figure out what you want and why nothing satisfies you. And then being a perfect 50/50 is just further evidence that neither side can make you happy, because there's always that half you're missing."

"That sounds like a discussion for a therapist. Bisexuality does not mean you have to have both. I've known plenty of bisexuals who have happy, satisfying, monogamous relationships."

"And that's exactly what I'm trying to do now, because I think I might finally have a shot. So what are Peeta's decimals?"

Adderwall sighs and looks at her computer screen. "He tested at 84.5."

"Wait a minute... that's outside the heterosexual range. That's bi-curious."

"We stick to whole numbers, so we rounded up. Eighty-four point five is considered straight."

"What's the second decimal?"

"Seriously?"

"Hundredths. Give it to me."

"Do you think it's going to make a difference?"

"That's up to me. I'm the one who paid for the test."

Adderwall sighs again, taps her screen, and then furrows her brow and frowns. She looks back at Gracen. "Maybe we didn't want to get your hopes up.  There are sociological factors to consider, where he's from, his exposure to --"

"What is it? What did you see? What's the second decimal place?"

She sighs. "He's eighty-four point four-five."

Gracen almost flies out of his chair. "You can't round up to eighty-five on a point four-five! That's cheating!"

"It rounds to eighty-four point five."

"But it rounds  _ down _ to a whole number of 84, not up to 85."

Adderwall throws up her hands. "Fine, you win. I didn't ask to get in a tug-of-war with a mathlete."

"Straight is 85 to 99. He's an 84. He's bi, whatever suffix you want to put on it."

"It’s a difference of zero point five-five percentage points on a scale of 99. That’s enough bi to make you happy?"

"It's wiggle room. I can work with that. I have  _ skills _ ."

Adderwall takes off her glasses, rubs her eyes, and then fixes her unguarded gaze on him. "What is it that you're trying to accomplish exactly?"

Gracen leans back in his chair, finally relaxing. He looks her straight in the eye. "It's simple. I want to fill him up with so much pleasure, there's no room left for any memory of pain."

She studies him for several moments before replying. "I take back what I said. Maybe you  _ are _ his friend."

 

++++++++

 

Peeta stares at the clock on the wall. It feels like Gracen's been gone forever. He looks at the luxuriant flowers on the bedside table. People in the Capitol like to give flowers. They gave him plenty after the Games. But they were never this interesting or lush like a prismatic jungle. It's as if Gracen knew exactly what he would like. 

_ Or maybe the florist just picked them out. _

He has a vague sense of remembering Gracen, but he's not sure. Peeta's met so many people at so many parties they all blur together. Especially when they have that Capitol face. Although Gracen  _ does _ have those really interesting eyes... And then there's the alcohol. That made things a little fuzzy. He's not a drinker, but he wasn't sure what was in all the concoctions they handed him at parties. And sometimes he didn't care. If getting buzzed helped him through one more night of chatting with people who thought it was the coolest thing ever that he won a murder contest, then ‘bottoms up.’ He avoided the stuff altogether when he got home. He wasn't going to turn into Haymitch. But then, Haymitch probably didn't turn into Haymitch until year after year of being handed tributes he could do nothing to save from their brutal deaths. As much as Peeta wanted to hate Haymitch for leaving him behind to face Snow’s wrath, he couldn’t. Haymitch just wants it all to stop.

Peeta looks at the clock again. He’s bored, unable to focus on anything, still in some kind of haze. The physical therapist came to work with him again, this time bringing hand weights and having him do some exercises. He hated how weak he felt. The therapist seemed disappointed that Gracen wasn't there. She kept asking about him. Did Peeta know if he had a girlfriend? The appointment dragged on past the hour as if she hoped that he might show up.  

Peeta figures that women must really like Gracen. He's tall and good-looking, and Capitol girls probably aren't bothered that his features are a little too pointy and perfect... they'd be considered almost feminine by District 12 standards. He dresses well, expensively, and people probably know that he has a lot of money. Peeta wonders if Gracen has a girlfriend. He probably has a girlfriend. What does she think of Peeta moving into his place?

When the physical therapist finally left, Gracen still wasn't back. An aide brought Peeta a magazine to read, which he pages through now, looking for something to distract him from how long Gracen's been gone. It's stupid celebrity gossip. The first story is about two soap opera stars who've been discovered to be dating in real life. There are paparazzi photos of stolen kisses. Peeta feels sorry for the actors. He knows what it's like to have all of your kisses filmed for others to enjoy.

The worst part is that he and Katniss are in the magazine, complete with a full-page photo of them. Maybe the aide thought he would like that. Actually, he does like seeing a picture of Katniss, and for a while just staring at her face brings him some comfort. He looks into her deep gray eyes, runs his fingers over her shiny lips. But the makeup is too much, and either the lighting or the photo editing -- or both -- make her glow unnaturally, so it doesn't really look like her. And the context is so depressing. The issue is over a month old, so there's lots of discussion about what will happen to the lovers in the Quarter Quell. More speculation about their hairstyles and clothes than about their chances for survival.  

Peeta carefully rips out the full-page picture of Katniss and him. It might not be the best representation, but it's something. He folds the page in half and slides it under his pillow so he can take it with him. Gracen said they're going home today, to Gracen's home anyway. But what Peeta cares about is that Gracen said he would start answering questions once they were alone and away from the hospital. That's why he can't wait to get out of here. 

Peeta has a lot of questions. He still doesn't know for sure what happened in District 12. It seems some people are dead and some are alive. He believes that his family is dead, but are their bodies just lying in a pile of rubble? Could Gracen do something about that? Peeta feels the tears coming. After everything he's been through, he's amazed he can still cry. Maybe that's a sign he's getting better. Did his family suffer or did they die quickly? He reaches for a tissue from the bedside table. He lies down on his side and cries into his pillow. 

It no longer works to tell himself that all that matters is that Katniss is alive. Of course the rest of it matters. He's all alone in the world now.

 

++++++++

 

"So you want to make him more gay?" Vick asks.

They're back in the computer room now, Vick and Gracen seated, Dr. Adderwall standing near the door like she's not planning on sticking around for very long. 

She shakes her head at Vick. "That's not how this works. You can't make a straight person gay or a gay person straight.  All this so-called 'love potion' can do is enhance the connection between two people. It's not necessarily sexual, but the connection can be very, very strong."

Vick asks the same question that Gracen is thinking. "If it's not sexual, what's the point?"

"The patients who seek this out typically need help with an existing relationship. Their bond is fracturing, usually from a combination of sexual and emotional issues. Chemicals can help, but they're not a replacement for couple's therapy, which is what I usually recommend."

"And if it's not an existing relationship?" asks Gracen.

"I once had an older gentleman who was in love with a much younger woman. Her feelings toward him mostly revolved around his having a lot of money. They wanted to get married, but she was depressed at the thought of having a loveless marriage. So I helped her find her sexual desire for him, and he was more than happy to pay for it. In the end, creating the emotional bond turned out to be much more important for the health of the relationship than stimulating lust." 

"Did it work?"

"Yes, it worked. But since the protocol is cost-prohibitive for most people, we don't have a large enough sample group to draw any conclusions about efficacy. There are no guarantees."

"What makes it so expensive?"

Dr. Adderwall nods to Vick to answer, and he's more than happy to explain. "Well! First there's the brain mapping, which you've already had done, but there's more we can do."

The doctor elaborates, "Scent is very important for the development of intimacy, so we like to have a full olfactory profile."

"Definitely," Vick agrees. "Got to have the pheromones! It's helpful to have as much biometric data as possible so that we develop the best protocol. We need a variety of pharmaceuticals that are super-pricey, some of which have to be customized. And then there's the delivery system. For this we recommend nanotechnology. It's the least invasive. The nanobots are so tiny they can actually be injected, so no brain surgery is required.” Vick laughs. “Easier to keep your subjugant in the dark if you don’t have to explain why he needs neurosurgery!”

"Could you stop calling him my subjugant? Just call him Peeta."

"Of course! So sorry! But the best part is..." Vick holds up the control panel, waves one hand in front, and opens his mouth in delight as if with an unspoken 'Ta-dah!' "The software! The entire protocol is customizable and controllable through this handy device! It can be monitored and adjusted as you go along in order to maximize the results. Even with the drugs he’s on now, you can turn them on when he's with you and then turn them off when he's not with you, so he'll automatically associate your presence with happiness and a sense of security. He'll be swooning in no time."

"Gracen," Adderwall says, "I might point out that you can achieve that on your own. Peeta's already developing a bond with you. He needs you. If you look at the test results, he's clearly an extrovert, and --"

_ Duh _ . "You don't need cognitive testing to figure that out."

"It doesn't mean what you think it means. It's not about being outgoing or friendly; it’s about how we get our energy, find our balance. When an extrovert is feeling low or stressed-out, he seeks out company. He needs to be around people to recharge, while introverts need to be alone. They're more likely to get stressed out by being around other people for too long. Also, Peeta finds comfort in physical contact with others, both male and female. You can give him that without putting bots in his brain. And maybe the rest will play out on its own."

Vick appears horrified at the thought. "But then you wouldn’t have this cool gadget to play with.  What's the fun in that? And comfort doesn’t mean sex."

"He's a 17-year-old male, which means his sex drive is peaking,” says Adderwall. “At some point he'll be horny enough to fornicate with the coffee table. You said you've got  _ skills _ ."

“I don’t just want sex. I want a relationship.”

“The two typically go together. Scientifically it’s known as a ‘pair bond.’ There’s an initial attraction, which leads to intimacy. The positive feedback the brain gets from the intimacy then creates a need for more, which strengthens the bond.” 

Gracen likes the sound of that. But just when he’s thinking he might be up for the challenge, Vick brings him crashing back down to reality:

"Seriously?! Do you not even  _ watch _ the Hunger Games?" His tone makes Adderwall raise her eyebrows and peer over her glasses at him, and Vick quickly turns contrite.  "Sorry, Dr. A. It's just that... Peeta is in love with Katniss. Everyone knows that. It's the most famous love story in the country."

"I guess I prefer  _ Mercury Street _ ."

"Then this would be like Elmwood and Smyrna breaking up."

"You shut your mouth. Nothing could break up Smyrwood."  

"See?! That's what I mean. Only Peeniss is worse. Breaking that 'pair bond' would be like splitting an atom."

Adderwall shakes her head at him. " _ Peeniss _ ? Really?"

Vick sighs exaggeratedly and rolls his eyes. "I know, I know. People prefer the more chaste 'Everlark,' but what can I say?" He winks at Gracen. "I just love Peeniss."

Dr. Adderwall is not amused. "Quit flirting with the client, Vick. You're not gay."

"I'm a 92, but I might make an exception..." He bats his eyelashes.

Bad puns aside, he clearly has no idea how miserable this whole turn of the conversation is making Gracen, who gazes back at the technician stone-faced.  _ Why does every fucking thing have to be about Katniss?   _

Most people in the Capitol erroneously believe in the contrived love story of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Gracen, having been privy to the behind-the-scenes action of the Games, is one of the few who know the truth. He knows that after Peeta confessed his love during his interview with Caesar, Katniss attacked him, an attack that left his hands cut up just when he was going to have to go into an arena and fight for his life. And when she did ‘fall’ for him, it was all a lie, a scheme to help her win. She made him believe she loved him, and then she broke his heart. Then he was forced to continue the charade. 

They called her ‘The Girl on Fire.’ Gracen found it ironic, since she seemed to be as frigid as they come. He has a better nickname for her: The Flaming Bitch. She’s why he feels such sympathy for Peeta, why he longs to comfort him and show him how he deserves to be loved.    

Vick continues blathering to Adderwall, "Did you not know about the secret wedding, that Peeta and Katniss eloped? That she's pregnant with his child? He would do anything to get back to her. Why do you think they had to put a tracker in him to keep him in the Capitol?"

Finally Gracen’s had enough. "They're not married, and there's no baby."

Vick gasps and covers his mouth. "She lost the baby?!"

"There never was a baby. Peeta made it up."

"You sound like the tabloids. 'Sham marriage.' 'Fake baby.' Who would invent such a cruel hoax?"

"Someone trying to stay alive?" Adderwall suggests.

_ Close _ , thinks Gracen, nodding.  _ Someone trying to keep the love of his life alive _ .  

Vick's brief man-crush comes to a dead stop. He folds his arms and glares at Gracen. "Well, you're just a walking spoiler, aren't you?"

"I'm not arguing with your point. Peeta is in love with someone else. He can't be with her, for political reasons and... other reasons."   _ Like the fact that the cold-blooded bitch rejected him. _  "So I'd like him to be with me. That's why I'm here."

"Then I refer to my previous analogy,”says Vick. “Katniss and Peeta are like two protons in a nucleus. You're not going to split apart that nucleus with a few warm hugs. You need to blast it with a supercollider." Vick taps his fingers together again and smiles impishly.  "But what's modern love without a little science and technology?"

Gracen looks back and forth between Adderwall and Vick. He ends on Vick.

"How long does it take to build a supercollider?"

++++++   

When Gracen arrives back at the room, Peeta sighs in relief and looks almost…  _ happy _ . "There you are! I was afraid you weren't coming back."

For a moment, Gracen thinks maybe Adderwall is right, that the bond between them is developing on its own, and he should focus on Peeta getting better. 

"I had to check in with all the doctors to make sure we're good to go. And you're all clear."

“To get out of here?” Peeta breathes another sigh. "Thank you."

A nurse’s aide, a good-looking guy whose name tag identifies him as Toby, has followed Gracen in. "I'll help you get dressed."

Gracen shows him the clothes he brought. "They might be big..."

"Anything beats going out in this gown,” says Peeta.

"Let's get you cleaned up first. Do you want me to give you a sponge bath, or would you like to try taking a shower?"

"I'd love a shower. Especially since I hear it has six heads."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” says the aide. “You're going to sit on a bench, and I'm going to be in charge of the spray."  

Toby disconnects the I.V. and the last of the monitors, and Peeta is finally free. They head into the bathroom, while Gracen lays the outfit for Peeta on the bed and then starts packing up. Peeta doesn't really have any stuff, but Gracen looks on the bedside tables to see if he's accumulated anything other than the flowers and the instructions from the physical therapist. All he sees is a gossip magazine. Apparently someone brought him something to read, someone unfamiliar enough with Peeta to think that this is what he would like. Then again, Gracen himself never would've assumed a person from District 12 would have literary tastes more sophisticated than this. Not before he met Peeta. And he still sees Peeta as the exception that proves the rule.

When they emerge from the bathroom, Peeta's wrapped in a towel, which the aide removes as he sits down on the bed. 

"I can step out while you get dressed," Gracen says.

"Why?" asks Peeta, looking confused. “It’s just us guys here.” 

“I just… I thought you might like some privacy.”

Peeta offers a tiny laugh tinged with bitterness. “So many people have seen me naked by now, you think I care?”

So Gracen stays put. He’s seen plenty of Peeta's chest now, but seeing the rest of him is hard to take. The bruises are fading, but cruel marks of torture linger on his body, along with a boniness and frailty that is so the opposite of his usual sturdiness. And then there's the permanent reminder of his time in the arena, his fake leg. Gracen knows that will take some getting used to, but then, he's read about advancements in actual limb transplants, so maybe they'll get Peeta a real leg somewhere down the road.  

As for the most anticipated part of the undressing, Peeta's manhood looks to be in very good shape.  _ Maybe it's still happy about yesterday. _

Peeta’s tired but still chats, not the least bit self-conscious about nakedness or bruises or fake legs or any of it, like they're just a few guys getting dressed in the locker room. Gracen would give anything to be that unselfconscious. Maybe he should look into the meds they've got Peeta on. Gracen rarely even gets fully undressed during sexual encounters, preferring hook-ups, like the one with Marti the other day, where all he has to do is unzip his fly.  

As he thinks about it, Gracen realizes he's been completely naked with very few people. It’s not that he feels he has anything to hide. His body is perfect; time and money have seen to that, though he never got the penis enlargement he contemplated. He has so much money he doesn't need a big dick. Maybe it’s that he doesn't think people have earned the privilege of seeing him, like he’s a club with an exclusive membership. Like his luxurious bedroom with its floor-to-ceiling windows and panoramic penthouse view just begging to be shared, yet few people have ever found their way into his bed.

The aide picks up the blue shirt that Gracen laid on the bed. "Is this the only shirt you have for him?"

"Yeah. What's the matter?"

"His shoulders are still healing, and a pullover is hard to put on because he has to put his arms up and twist them around. We prefer shirts that open in the front so we can just slide them up the arms."

_ Shit _ . Gracen screwed up. But then he looks down and sees he's wearing a button-down shirt. He starts to undo it. "Here, take mine."

"You don't have to do that," says Peeta.

"Shush." He slides his shirt off and hands it to the aide. Normally a shirt of his would be a little snug for Peeta in the shoulders, but with the loss of muscle mass, it fits Peeta just fine. Gracen stands watching, half-naked, waiting to be sure. While being buttoned up, Peeta looks sideways at him. Gracen finds that he likes the feeling of Peeta seeing his bare chest, likes the way those blue eyes linger for a moment, taking him in.  

_ Okay, Mr. Bi-curious. _

Finally Gracen puts on the blue pullover, which is a little big in the arms and waist but generally works. He can change as soon as he gets home. He's going to have to look for more excuses to undress in front of Peeta.

Once Peeta's fully clothed, his hair combed and blow-dried, it's time to go. Gracen calls the valet station to have them bring the car around. The aide brings in a wheelchair.  

"Can we take the flowers?" asks Peeta.

"They're a little old. We could get some fresh ones."

"They look fine to me."

Toby helps Peeta into the wheelchair, and Gracen sets the flowers in his lap.

"One other thing," says Peeta. "It's under the pillow."

Gracen lifts up the pillow and finds a folded magazine page. "What's this?"

Peeta reaches for it, and Gracen hands it to him. Peeta unfolds the page to show him a photograph of himself and Katniss in one of their dolled-up shots promoting the Games.

"I want to take this with me."

Gracen nods.  _ Because it has to be about Katniss. _

He follows behind as the aide wheels Peeta out. There’s only one thing he can do.  

Build a supercollider and aim it straight at Peeta’s heart.  


	5. Cupid's Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have concerns about the non-con aspect of this story, please read the following. The rest of you can skip these notes and go straight to the chapter.
> 
> After the last chapter, I got a lot of comments expressing concern about the non-con aspect of this story. Some of the comments got testy and argumentative, with the same people repeating their points over and over again, and I ended up deleting some of them after one of my friends suggested I was being trolled. I’m willing to explain to you where I’m coming from, but I’m not willing to have the comments section of my fic turn into a discussion board about whether non-con should be used for entertainment purposes, nor am I interested in people telling me how I have to write my story. If you have a problem with non-con that you cannot set aside to enter a fantasy world, please don’t read this fic. That is what trigger warnings are for.
> 
> I use the word “fantasy” because that’s what this is. While there are certainly real-world parallels, none of this is actually possible. I conceived this as a sci-fi version of the love potion/spell/curse idea that is commonplace in the fantasy genre. [Here](https://www.pottermore.com/features/love-potion-guide-hogwarts-most-intoxicating-tonic) is an article on all the love potions and spells in _Harry Potter_. Even Mrs. Weasley confessed to using one at one point. [Here](http://buffy.wikia.com/wiki/Love_spell) is an article on love spells in _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. In fact, one of the main characters, Anya, is a former vengeance demon who counted among her ways to punish an unfaithful man making him [“become attracted by other guys.”](http://buffy.wikia.com/wiki/Anya_Jenkins)  
>  A love potion forms the basis of the plot for the movie _Shrek 2_ , and love spells (or wishes granted by a genie) show up in _Once Upon a Time_ (I think the genie one was in _OUAT in Wonderland_ ), and my most recent favorite fantasy show, _Galavant_ (*sniff*). While many of these are for children and do not explicitly depict sex, some of them do, some of them it is at least implied, and all of them are non-con.
> 
> The other influence here is Greek and Roman mythology, which plays into the zeitgeist of the Capitol. Those stories are more explicitly sexual. Zeus in particular enjoys shape-shifting and other magical ways of seducing women. Several of his children are produced that way (and, back to fantasy for a moment, someone pointed out to me that this is also how warlocks like Magnus are fathered in the _Shadowhunters/The Mortal Instruments_ franchise). Aphrodite was capable of making anyone fall in love with anyone, the most famous result of which was the Trojan War, which happened because she made Paris fall in love with Helen of Troy. Her son Eros also had that ability (his Roman counterpart, Cupid, gets a shout-out in this chapter).
> 
> I’m not advocating here; I’m simply explaining why I was surprised by the freak-out over the last chapter. The point here is not to suggest that it’s okay to do this to someone; quite the opposite – Gracen is going to learn that his “love potion” is a really bad idea. As I mentioned in my reply to one of the comments, this is a morality tale. And it’s exactly the sort of thing I can see happening in the Capitol, where nature is always at the mercy of fickle fads and fetishes, the citizens are over-indulged to keep them cooperative, and people from the districts have no rights.
> 
> If you do wish to have a discussion about this, please feel free to contact me on Tumblr, which is a more appropriate forum. Thanks for reading.

**Chapter 5: Cupid's Arrow**

Gracen has not even pulled out of the hospital parking lot when Peeta aims those intense blue eyes at him and starts firing questions. He wants to know what happened, where everyone is, who's alive, safe, and who isn't.

This is not the ride home Gracen envisioned. He thought they'd do a tour of the Capitol, and he could show Peeta his favorite restaurants and stores and theaters. Instead it feels like the most rigorous exam he's had since college. He should’ve grabbed a coffee for the road.

The key thing is what Peeta has already figured out by reverse-engineering the questions he was asked while in captivity: that District 13 is alive and well and is now the base for the rebellion. Gracen himself did not know this until after the arena was attacked, although he assumes his father did. His father never reveals how or when he gets his information. The citizens of the Capitol know only that the rebel tributes escaped on a hovercraft stolen from the Capitol fleet, which means they have no idea where the rebels went. The government is not being forthcoming about anything, and they keep tight control on the media.

Peeta wants specifics next. Gracen is pretty forthcoming with what he knows: Finnick and Beetee, along with Katniss, escaped and are safely in District 13 along with Haymitch and Plutarch and other traitors from the Capitol, as well as those who escaped District Twelve.  Johanna, like Peeta, was not so lucky. Cinna was arrested, but Gracen doesn't mention that he thinks the stylist is dead. Cinna's prep team was abducted by the rebels, probably to spare them the same fate. Peeta asks about Effie, Portia, and his own preps. They're safe as far as Gracen knows. He can find out more.

It takes a surprisingly long while for Peeta to get around to asking about what happened in Twelve. Gracen suspects he's afraid of the answers. It's also not easy for Gracen to talk about.  What do you say to someone who has lost his entire family? Gracen is very close to his parents; he can't imagine losing them. It's all made worse by Dr. Adderwall's assessment of Peeta and his deep emotional needs. So Gracen decides to be matter-of-fact.

"The main part of town was hit first and completely destroyed. I haven't heard of any survivors there. Those who escaped were mainly from the poorer area where the coal miners live."

"The Seam."

"Yeah, I guess."

"What about Katniss' sister, Prim, and their mother?"

"That's the interesting part. You'd think if they wanted to punish Katniss, they'd be sure to take out her family. But they didn't touch Victors' Village. Not sure why. It's not like they're going to need it anymore. You and Katniss are officially the last tributes from District 12."

"So they escaped?"

"Yes, with the help of that guy people say is Katniss' cousin but that rumors suggest is... something else." He glances at Peeta to see if that gets a reaction, but his blonde brows are already knit together in deep processing mode.  

"Gale," Peeta says.

"I'm sure you know more about that than I do. Isn't that why you put that picture of him in the locket? Because he's her boyfriend?" _Please say yes. Say that they're probably together now, and then you can move on._

Peeta shakes his head. "I don't know what he is. I don't know anything anymore."

Gracen hates to twist the knife, but it might be his best chance. "Well, I'm sorry they're together now in District 13, and you're stuck here."

Peeta turns to look at him, and there's a flash of anger in his eyes. "I don't care about that. I'm happy that she's alive, and I'm happy that he's alive. All the people I care about are either dead or rebelling. That's why I hate being stuck here. I should be doing something. I should be helping them."

"Whoah, hang on... Peeta, the best thing you can do to help is to encourage them to stop fighting. They can't win. They're seriously outgunned. And it's not just the fighters. A lot of innocent people will die."

"They already did."

"Snow won't stop at destroying District 12. He'll wipe them all out if he has to. He was willing to give up coal. You think he won't give up seafood? Finnick was part of this. District 4 will be next. The only reason it hasn't been wiped out already is that Mags is dead and Snow had his people take the only other person Finnick truly cares about."

"Annie? The one he was screaming for during the Quell? The one they were pretending to torture?"

"Yes, only now she's in the same place they were keeping you, probably being tortured for real, in order to torture Finnick."

"How do you know that? How do you know any of this?"

"Like I told you before, my father is a very wealthy and powerful man. His company works with the government, doing systems design and implementation. So he has a lot of contacts, and they keep him informed. And he keeps me informed, moreso recently because I've been asking a lot more questions -- things I needed to know to get you out. I never cared about political stuff before."

"Can you help Annie? And Johanna?"

"No. We exhausted all the political capital we had getting you out. You were the hardest to get, because Snow hates Katniss more than he hates anyone, and you second-most. He thinks that you and Katniss winning the Games together is what started all of this, this whole new rebellion."

"Was it?"

"No. I don't know. But it threw a lot of fuel on the fire. We think maybe Plutarch started communicating with District 13 quite a while ago. It's possible the leader there -- a woman they call President Coin -- contacted him first. Or maybe one of the victors. But you and Katniss and that fucking mockingjay pin became the symbols they needed to galvanize the districts. You saw it yourself on the Tour. And that's why it's so important for you to do the videos."

"What videos?"

"The ones you record to say you support the Capitol. Propaganda to use against the rebels."

"I already did one. You want me to do more?"

"Not me. President Snow does."

"I don't see how I can."

"You have to. People will listen to you."

"Why would they listen to anything from me when they know I'm being forced to say it?"

"I've seen you work an audience. You can be a good actor when you want to be. And this time it's about saving a lot of people besides Katniss. Getting them to stop fighting is the only way to stem the slaughter."

"Maybe they'd rather die than live like this any longer."

Gracen takes a deep breath. He wasn't expecting this to get political. He looks at Peeta and sees that not only is his brow furrowed, but his lips are so tightly pursed the pink has almost completely faded into white. "I think that's true of the rebels. They're willing to die for their cause. But your parents and your brothers weren't given that choice, were they?"

Peeta's only response to that is to turn to stare out his window, so Gracen presses on:

"Everyone will be punished, not just the rebels, if this continues. And maybe they don't have to live like this any longer. Maybe they can negotiate a truce that keeps Panem together but ends the Hunger Games. Or maybe the Games can be every four or five years instead of every year. I know a lot of high-level people in the Capitol who are in favor of that, including my father. Maybe it can work out well for everyone. But the longer this goes on, the worse Snow looks, the more he wants revenge, and the less likely it is that there’ll be anything close to a positive outcome."

Peeta continues facing the window, so Gracen can't see what's in his eyes. He's actually grateful now for that tracker, because he realizes that this kid might just be dumb enough to run off and join the rebellion and get himself killed.

When Peeta finally responds, still gazing away, his tone is chillingly resigned. "If the Games resume, they'll finish the Quell. Snow won't just let us all walk away."

Gracen hadn't thought of that. _What does the contract say? Does it prevent that from happening? It must..._ "I'm not so sure, since several of the participants are never coming back."

"They are if they surrender."

"Then we'll make sure that's part of the peace agreement."

They're getting close to Gracen's building now. They cruise past his favorite coffee house, where patrons pack the sidewalk tables, sipping their brews as they enjoy one of the last Friday evenings of the summer. But he decides not to point it out. He doesn't want to stop for coffee. He wants to get home and end this conversation so he can take a break and think. This is not going well. He needs better answers. And he needs to find a way to distract Peeta from all this war talk. Hopefully what he has in the apartment will be enough.

They park in front of his building. After they exit the car, Peeta's eyes widen in alarm when it starts to drive away by itself.

"Your car is leaving," he warns.

"It has auto-drive. It's going to go park itself. I want to take you in through the front. It makes a much nicer entrance than the garage."

The doorman pulls the glass door open for them. "Good evening, Mr. Avanknar."

"Hello..." Gracen has to look at his nametag to remember. "...Abner." He usually comes in through the garage and only sees a doorman when he goes for a run, and that's the early morning guy. But Abner's been here several years; he should try to remember. Then again, he likes Abner less when he sees the way his nose wrinkles when he takes in Peeta's starved, splotchy appearance and ill-fitting clothes.

Gracen ushers Peeta inside and watches him peer skyward as he admires the expansive lobby with its curved white stone ceiling that melts seamlessly into columns surrounded by purple velvet couches. Gracen also keeps an eye on him to see how he's walking, but he seems to be doing well after only two sessions of physical therapy. Still, it doesn’t hurt to walk close to him so he can grab him if he stumbles.

Peeta is also clearly impressed when the elevator scans Gracen's retina and whisks them straight up to the penthouse. The doors open right into the apartment. Gracen finds Peeta's wide-eyed fascination adorable, but mostly he’s relieved that anything can distract the boy from all of the things he’s upset about.  

They walk into the main room, bathed in a pastel glow by late-afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. "Wow. This is your place?"

"Yeah."

"Do you live alone?"

"I do."

“You don’t have a girlfriend or anything?”

“Not one who lives here.” _Let’s keep that one ambiguous._

"It's incredible." Peeta admires a painting on the wall. "Did you pick out this artwork?"

"My mother is my decorator, and she did some of the paintings, too. She studied art and design in school and still paints as a hobby."

"I paint, too."

"I know. They displayed some of your work when you were on Tour. Good stuff. I’d like to set you up with a studio, but my extra rooms are taken up by my office and my gym. You’re in the guest room. We'll have to just keep all your art stuff in there."

"I don't have any stuff," says Peeta. He passes from assessing the art to admiring the view.

"You do, actually. My mom brought over what she called a 'starter kit' and said she'll take you to her favorite art supply store to pick out what else you want. Let me show you."  

They walk down a short hallway and into the guest room. His mother recently had it redone in shades of deep blue and stone and silver. Peeta whistles. In addition to the bedroom furniture, it features a drawing desk, two easels, a supply cabinet, and a cart. Peeta opens the cabinet to find an array of paints and brushes and canvases.

"Are you serious? This is all for me?"

"My mom was thrilled to hear she was putting together a room for an artist. She might've gone a little overboard. That woman really loves to shop."

"I wouldn't call myself an artist. I'm better at frosting cakes than anything else."

"Don't be so humble. We don't do humility in the Capitol."

Peeta gives him a crooked smile. "Looks like you don't under-do anything."

"Speaking of cakes, do you want to check out the kitchen? I don't do much cooking -- I mostly eat what my housekeeper leaves for me -- but she recommended some bakeware that I ordered for you."

Peeta shakes his head in disbelief. "And I was excited that I got some flowers."

"Sorry, is it too much? I don't want to overwhelm you. Maybe you should rest before we finish the tour."

"You said you have a gym?"

"Yeah."

"I wanna see that."

They head back down the hallway to the exercise room. It's full of aerobic machines, strength machines, and free weights. They walk onto the specialized wood floor with under-padding for shock absorption.

"This is all just for you? This is way better than the gym we had at home."

"You had a home gym?"

"No, no one in District Twelve had their own gym. But we had one at school. Weight benches and some dumbbells, pull-up bars, not much else. The only thing anyone wanted to get us in shape for was coal mining."

"Did you work out a lot? You looked pretty built when you entered the Games."

"I was on the wrestling team, so I spent some time in the gym." The thought of Peeta wrestling makes Gracen's cock twitch. "Wish I could've spent more, but I had to work at my parents' bakery, too. Katniss said I got my strength from tossing bags of flour."  

At the mention of Katniss, Gracen's arousal dissipates quickly. But he can still rescue the topic. "Were you good at it? The wrestling?"

"I had two older brothers who loved beating me up. I had to be good at it."

Gracen feels like he's supposed to say something, like, 'I'm sorry about your brothers,' but it feels too awkward, and he doesn't know what else it might open up. "I can't say I'm much of a wrestler, but I work out and I run, if you're interested in that."

"I'm not much of a runner. Not anymore." He points down at his artificial leg.

"Oh... We'll figure something out. The physical therapist will have suggestions for how to get you back in shape." _And rebuild those beautiful muscles of yours._

"Emotionally and physically?" says Peeta. He raises his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth curling ever-so-slightly up into a knowing smirk.  

"What do you mean?"  

"The art supplies and the baking? It all sounds like some kind of therapy."

Gracen chuckles. _The kid doesn't miss much_. "Yeah. Look... I, um, I can't undo the things that have been done to you. What you've been put through. But I can help you get healthy. My housekeeper is going to cook special meals --"

"I don't need someone to cook for me."

"For now you'll tolerate it. Speaking of which, she left us some food, and I'm starving."

Gracen takes them to the kitchen and starts to unload the fridge onto the counter. It’s an excellent way to redirect the conversation. What safer topic is there for guys than food? He looks over to see Peeta running his fingers along the onyx countertop. He loves how tactile Peeta is, needing to explore every surface with his eyes and his hands.

"What did you say you do for a living?” Peeta asks. “Computers?"

"Yeah. Software. Work for my father's company and, um, various other entities." He's not sure why he's reluctant to mention the Games. It's always been a point of pride -- there's no more prestigious gig anywhere. Plus he got it on his own, without his father’s help. People can't stop asking him questions about it. Even the other victors he knows love hearing the behind-the-scenes stuff. Of course, most of them were volunteers.

"What's your father's company?"

"This." Gracen reaches into his jacket and pulls out his Pocketron.

Nothing registers on Peeta's face. "A communicator?"

Gracen tries not to look aghast. _Right. District Twelve._ "This isn't just any communicator. It's a Pocketron. It's the best-selling device in all of Panem, and my father invented it."

"Cool." But he sounds less impressed than just being polite.

"I'll get you one when we go shopping."

"Do I need one?"

"Of course you do. Everyone needs one. That's why it's the best-selling device in the country."

"What will I do with it? I don't have a lot of people to call. Unless... I don't suppose you can get a number for Katniss."

"That's not funny, Peeta. If you make even the tiniest attempt to contact any of those people, you'll be in violation of the terms of our agreement that got you out of that place."

"I wasn't trying to be funny. But that's good to know."

Gracen probably sounded too harsh. He should apologize. If he did that sort of thing. "Besides, a Pocketron is for a lot of things besides making calls. It can run any application. Anything you use a computer for."

This gets another blank stare from Peeta.

Gracen can't believe the words that are about to come out of his mouth. "Have you ever even used a fucking computer?"

"Until they invent one that can bake bread, I wouldn't have much use for it."

“What about in school?”

“Why would you need a computer for school?”

Gracen needs to sit down. He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Forget painting. Forget baking. The first thing you are going to do is learn computing."

And then he changes the subject back to food. Because his head is spinning.

+++++

Gracen has nothing scheduled for Peeta for his first full day home. The guy obviously still needs rest. He's fast asleep as Gracen stands watching him from the doorway, sipping his second cup of coffee of the morning. The rest is paying off; the appropriate colors are returning to Peeta's face, less darkness around his eyes, more ruddiness in his cheeks. Having him here at last feels so good, Gracen could stand and watch him sleep for hours. But he doesn't have that luxury.

He heads into his office to begin the arduous task of catching up on missed work. He's going to have to go back in a few days. There are dozens of messages, reports to read, data sets to analyze, summaries of missed meetings. But what seizes his attention is a video message from President Snow.  

Just the name makes Gracen uneasy. He knows it's unlikely to be about work. Even with Plutarch gone, there's still a thick layer of managers and Gamemakers between him and the President. There's no reason for Snow to contact him directly unless it's about Peeta.  

He steels himself with a big swig of coffee before he plays the message.

The Presidential seal appears, accompanied by official music, and then the visage of the white-haired old man fills his screen. Snow always seems to be sneering, the closest he can muster to an actual smile. His upper lip forms a rectangle over his teeth. "Hello Gracen. I hope this message finds you well. I hear you've taken Peeta home from the hospital. That's lovely. I just want you to know not to worry if things don't work out. Though you might not believe it, I still recall the fleeting thrills of youth. Never fear -- when you get tired of your new toy, I will happily take him off your hands." His sneer broadens. "Give my best to your family."

The seal and the music come on again. Gracen has to fight the urge to throw his coffee at the screen. If Snow is trying to get Peeta back, pissing Gracen off is not the way to do it. What is he playing at? Is this Snow being a sore loser? It's not like he didn't get anything out of the bargain.

And how is Gracen supposed to focus on work now?  

He drums his fingers on his coffee mug. _No one is going to separate me from Peeta. Not all the forces of Panem._

He turns back to the computer and contacts the hospital to see if Dr. Adderwall is available. He has to wait a few minutes, and then her warm, grandmotherly face appears on screen. No glasses. They seem to have patched her in from home. And then he remembers that it’s Saturday. Her family probably banned the glasses so they don’t get _the look_.

"Good morning, Gracen. What can I do for you?"

"I was thinking about something you said. About the initial attraction that leads to intimacy. Don't you need some kind of trigger to get that going?"

"That depends on what you’re trying to create. We’ve used a variety of hormones. They can be manipulated by scent or by the nano-delivery system we discussed."

"Scent… Is that the pheromones Vick mentioned?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that. I can set you up with our endocrinologist to walk you through it, if you choose to go that route."

"I have another question."

"Go ahead."

"What do you think of when I mention Cupid's Day?"

She thinks for a moment. "A holiday designed to traumatize single people and force everyone else to support florists and overpriced, overcrowded restaurants."

"So you don't celebrate it?"

" _I_ don't celebrate it. But if my husband comes home without those flowers, he's sleeping on the couch."

"Floral industry condemnation aside, you agree that it's supposed to be a day to celebrate romance."

"Yes."

"And who's Cupid?"

"Roman god. Flies around naked shooting people with arrows. Sometimes wears a diaper, I suppose when he's feeling modest."

"And why does he shoot them with arrows?"

"To make them fall in love."  

"Exactly."

"I think I see where you're going with this."

"The ultimate symbol of romance is actually about forcing someone to fall in love."

"So you think I'm Cupid?"

"No. I just think that love needing a trigger is not such a bad thing. Because love itself is a good thing. That's why we celebrate it."

Adderwall sighs. "I'll set up an appointment for us to consult with Dr. May, our chief endocrinologist."

"I'm taking Peeta in for PT day after tomorrow. Two o'clock."

"I'll see if that works."

Gracen pushes a button, and her face disappears. He stares at the momentarily-blank screen and drains the last muddy dregs from his coffee mug.

He still can’t believe that Peeta has never used a computer. Not only that, but he apparently feels perfectly comfortable in a world in which they don’t exist. It’s as if the two of them don’t even speak the same language. And they don’t, really, because the language of the computer is the most important thing that Gracen ever learned.

And it’s the reason for everything that he has.

He made a fortuitous decision at a relatively young age. He didn’t have to go into his father’s line of work. He could’ve done anything. He wanted to do everything. He was going to pilot a hovercraft. He was going to run the elephant habitat at the zoo. He was going to be a rock star and do sell-out shows at the football stadium with lasers and fireworks and wear his hair two feet tall and bleached white and call himself The Snowman.  

And then he learned a language. Latin. Plutarch taught it to him, and not just so he could read _The Aeneid_ in the poetic form in which it was intended. Plutarch said that for over a thousand years, Latin was the language of the educated class. During the Roman Epoch, every citizen in every land under its expansive grip could improve his status by learning the tongue of their conquerors. And long after the empire crumbled, it continued to be the official language of scholars throughout Europe and the Western world, in part because learning it required intellectual fortitude.  

If knowledge was power, then Latin was power. And if Gracen could master it, in all its complexity, its conjugation and declension, then Plutarch promised to share with him the modern-day language of power.

So once they had finished with the tongue of Caesar and the Pax Romanus, Plutarch revealed to his young pupil what today’s Latin is. Binary code. From a simple alphabet of two letters, a one and a zero, it can grow as complex as outer space is vast. If you learn that language, the language of programming, the language of the computer, you will gain the knowledge that can lead to true power. And then you can do anything.

That is the language that Gracen’s father speaks. And he used it to build an empire. Or, rather, re-build an empire, in the sense of reviving the Avanknar name. They were a once-great family on the verge of being swallowed up, like all once-great families, in a decrepit ash-filled crypt with a name engraved over the door so weathered that it could no longer be read.

But Armand Avanknar was not having that.  

As a young man, he made his name as the lead design engineer on the product development team that created the pod. The Games Committee went to a group of programmers and presented a vexing problem: what do you do when the tributes refuse to fight each other? When the weak gang up on the strong and then call a truce? The answer was simple; the execution was not. There needed to be a game-changer, a lethal force, that could be designed quickly or stored digitally -- with minimal physical footprint in the arena -- and triggered on command. And Armand would not rest until he found it.

The resulting design was so successful it not only revolutionized the Hunger Games -- reviving it after years of declining ratings and claims that it had jumped the proverbial shark -- it was also modified to form the ground defenses for the Capitol itself. Armand then moved further into defense work, developing shields for hovercraft. And then communications. That was another problem to solve. As the atmosphere deteriorated, satellites became harder to keep in low orbit, and the cell towers had long since been abandoned. Was there a type of frequency that could be ground-based but have the range of a satellite? There was, if it was boosted with a dose of radiation, the way light becomes a laser. Armand then started his own company and developed the Pocketron.

Someday Gracen will inherit that company and run it, hopefully with Peeta at his side. But then how can he keep Peeta from learning about his father’s contribution to the Hunger Games?

Peeta has seen pods first-hand. He’s been on the receiving end of them. They’ve taken his friends. One took his leg.

And that’s exactly what Armand Avanknar designed them to do.


	6. Nightmare

_He's back in the cell. Doctor Pain is in front of him, raking his pale green gaze over his body, assessing him. Trying to decide what to inflict next. Those wizened eyes are a window into a twisted brain full of infinite possibilities for horror.  
_  
_Peeta looks away and sees a door. It leads outside into trees.  
_  
_Nature.  
_  
_Katniss will be there.  
_  
_He runs toward the trees. But there's fog. He knows the fog is bad. He runs in another direction. Cato stops him. He has a sword. Cato opens his mouth to speak, and a river of blood comes gushing out. Peeta turns to see the cause.  
_  
_It's Brutus. Towering. Vicious. Bloodthirsty.  
_  
_Peeta knows what he has to do. He does it every time. He kills Brutus with a lunge of his knife, massing all of his strength and anger and fear to plunge the blade through the armor-like skin and muscle. He stabs again and again. Then he hears the scream.  
_  
_Katniss screaming.  
_  
_With horror he realizes he left the door open. The door to the cell.  
_  
_He runs back. It's too late. Doctor Pain has her. He hears her screams as the door slams shut. She screams his name. "Peeta! Peeta!”_

"Peeta!"

His eyes fly open to daylight framing a shadow. In a panic he struggles forward, upward, almost knocking heads with the person leaning over him.

"Woah! Hey! Calm down!" a now-familiar voice cries, nervously, as if Peeta took a swing at him.

That must've been the shadow in the middle of the light. The nightmare fades away, and Peeta can focus on reality, but his heart still thumps like a war drum from his rampage in the jungle.  
Olive-brown eyes, sparkling gold in the streaming sunlight, peer with urgency into his.

"Peeta, it's okay. You were just having a nightmare."

It's Gracen. He sits down on the edge of the bed. Peeta slumps back onto his pillow, the thundering of his heart finally beginning to slow. But there's still such a tight knot of stress in his chest it actually hurts.

Gracen pats his arm between his elbow and shoulder. "It's okay. You're safe." He pauses for a response, but Peeta isn't yet able to give one. "I should've woken you up sooner. In the hospital they gave you something to help you sleep. Maybe that kept the nightmares away."

Peeta closes his eyes, willing his heart rate to slow. He takes a deep breath and exhales. Finally, he looks up at Gracen and says, "I'm fine. It's nice to wake up _from_ a nightmare rather than _to_ one."

Gracen frowns at the thought and doesn't say anything. His hand rests on Peeta's arm. It still feels strange to Peeta to experience human touch that's designed to comfort rather than torment. The touch feels good, even if it's from a virtual stranger. It feels like it's reconnecting him to the world after having been cut off from it and alone.

He wonders what brought Gracen in here. "Was I screaming?"

"No. I just came by to check on you, and you were thrashing around and looked distressed." He pats Peeta's arm one last time and then announces, "I'm going to go make you some coffee. Do you take cream and sugar?"

"Just cream. Thanks."

Gracen nods, then smiles at him before he leaves. Peeta finds something reassuring in those warm hazel eyes. There's so much light streaming into the room, the irises almost completely swallow up the pupils into pools of liquid gold. They're framed by long dark lashes, and it's hard to tell if he's wearing a thin edging of black eyeliner or if that's just the thickness of the lashes. As Gracen gets up to leave, Peeta observes that he's wearing a zip-up sweatshirt and jeans. Maybe he skips the make-up when he's going casual.

Peeta sucks in another deep breath, and his eyes take a tour of the room that's now his, at least for some unspecified amount of time. It looks different in the bright morning light. Gracen showed him a button he could push to lower the blinds along the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, but he didn't want to. He likes the light. He notices fabric-like textures on the walls that he couldn't see before. Intricate details. Subtle shifts in color.

Next he takes in all the paint supplies. It's a panoply of possibilities. Maybe he _will_ use it as therapy, to express what he can't otherwise. He did that the last time he was separated from Katniss, although that time it was not by distance but by stupid, wounded pride. He holed up in a house right across the street from her in Victors' Village, painting pictures of her and their time in the arena while refusing to acknowledge her continued existence.

If only he'd known they'd have such a limited time before being sentenced to another deathmatch in another arena, he wouldn't have acted like such a childish idiot. He'd give anything not to have wasted all that time. He'd give anything to have another _week_ with Katniss. To be close enough to her to breathe in her scent that's both wilderness and home, like a freshly-built chair that still holds the fragrance of the pine tree that it was. To feel the fierce, fearless determination that emanates from the core of her being, especially when someone she loves is in need. To be enveloped in one of her intense bursts of warmth, like a solar flare, that she would offer him when he was able to pry one of the bricks out of the wall she'd built around herself. Every time they were together he felt more of those bricks loosen. He chiseled away at them slowly, so as not to scare her off. Haymitch told him to keep trying. His father told him to keep trying.

And now he hates himself for it, for trying to break down that wall when she's going to need it again, to protect her from losing _him_. Something he never thought would be necessary. He had given up any hope of her having feelings for him anything close to what he felt for her. But then on that hot, sticky night on the beach, she stubbornly refused to let him go, even after he showed her the locket. And as always with Katniss, it wasn’t what she said but what she showed. She kissed him, and then she kissed him again, and not like the kisses before, where just their lips connected -- this time she opened up to him completely. Their tongues connected; her mouth warmed his; his lips became her meal. He felt that wall around her blast away like the dynamite in the mines, and her warmth enveloped him completely.

He wonders if she knows that he's safe, that he got away from Snow. There must be a Gracen on the other side, someone who can get all of the information about what's happening in the Capitol. Maybe Plutarch.

Peeta glances at the clock on the bedside table. Glowing blue numbers jump out from a silver background to announce that it's after ten. He slept for eleven hours.

He finally pulls back the silky white linens and gray quilt and climbs out of the huge, soft bed. It's even larger than the one he had in Victors' Village. It's then that he notices the bulge in his underwear, all the more pronounced because he doesn't normally wear skimpy little briefs like these. It's odd that the other clothes were loose on him but the underwear is perfectly snug, which means it either contains some very high-performing elastic or else it was intended to be tight. He knows the little briefs are the Capitol style -- he's been dressed in them before -- but he doesn't recall them being particularly uncomfortable.

He can't remember if he got aroused thinking about Katniss or if he woke up that way. His brothers told him that you can wake up in the morning with a hard-on just from having to pee. And he definitely needs to do that.

He heads to the toilet, making a note to himself to thank Gracen's mother for all of the art supplies. And for the beautiful design of this apartment. And for her beautiful son who saved his life and made it possible that he might one day get back to work on dismantling that wall.

When he comes out of the bathroom, wearing the robe laid out for him, Gracen is already waiting with his coffee.

"Wow. You can make coffee faster than I can pee."

"All I had to do was push a button. Follow me."

Peeta takes the coffee and follows Gracen to the kitchen. Another room that looks different by day. The sun bounces off so much high-gloss lacquer that it almosts hurts his eyes. Gracen motions for him to sit on a stool at an island in the middle of the room, bathed by a skylight, but Peeta hesitates. He suddenly doesn't want to sit down. Moving around feels surprisingly good, despite the dull aches and pains. He feels free.

"This is weird," he says.

"The kitchen?"

"No. Being able to walk around. You know how when you're in water and then you get out of it your limbs move so much easier? It feels weird at first. It's like that. I can get up and walk around."  
Gracen nods stoically and turns back to the counter, where he's taking things out of a white paper bag.

Peeta wonders if he shared too much and it's making his host uncomfortable. No one wants to hear about the effects of being held prisoner in a torture chamber. Especially not someone from the Capitol for whom pain and suffering are probably foreign concepts, something they see on television. He places his coffee on the island and scoots up onto the stool, his legs dangling.

Gracen sets three red bottles of pills down in front of him, along with a glass of water. "These are your medications. Two of them are only for a few weeks, until you're healed. The other one has refills."

Peeta starts to ask what they're for, but then decides to ask a different question instead. He opens the first bottle and pulls out a pill. "So, when do you go to work?"

"I'm off for a few more days. I can work from home, in my office. I want to make sure you're settled in before I go back."

"Thanks." Peeta swallows a pill with a swig of water.

"No problem."

"So... how do you work from home? Do they send stuff to your computer?"

"Yeah. They send me problems."

"Like... math problems?"

"Sort of. I'm a programmer. I make the computers work for other people. If you need to get a computer to do something, you write a program. And when other programmers fail, when they get stuck, they come to me."

"And you solve the problem."

"Exactly. I like to tackle the big challenges. Untangle the knots."

"Is that why you helped me? That must've been a pretty big challenge," says Peeta. He swallows another pill. "I can never thank you enough for that, by the way."

"You don't have to." And then he moves right along. "Sometimes it's just what's called 'debugging.' There can be the tiniest piece of code that can thwart any program. One in a hundred million. So then you have to build programs to find the flaws in other programs. But what I really like..." He stops, probably realizing that Peeta has no idea what he's talking about. "You know what? I think I'm getting ahead of where we're going to start. What would you like for breakfast?"

Peeta notes to himself that Gracen likes to discuss computers. Not so much feelings of gratitude.

"I usually eat toast for breakfast. But I'll take whatever you've got."

"I have a coffee cake and some pastries my mother sent us. And cereal. I'm not much of a cook, but I have an egg fryer."

"Coffee cake is fine. I can fry myself an egg. You've done enough for me."

"I'm going to fry you three eggs, and you're going to eat them, because you need protein to rebuild the muscle mass you've lost."

"Okay, Doc." Peeta smiles and shakes his head. He thinks maybe Gracen is trying extra hard to show concern about his physical health because he's uncomfortable talking about the rest of it. But then, very few guys like talking about emotions. Or even thinking about them. Peeta knows he's one of the exceptions.

He takes a sip from his mug. He's not a big coffee drinker, but Gracen practically inhales the stuff, so he figures he should get used to it. This coffee is actually pretty good. It's more mild than the bitter stuff he's had before, and his tongue doesn't feel like it's been insulted. He likes the earthy quality it has, like what tasting nature might be like, if dirt and trees and stuff tasted good.

Gracen opens up a pink box and takes out a cinnamon streusel cake. "My housekeeper is off for the weekend, but she'll be back Monday, and then she's going to cook for you. And before you start arguing again, don't. It can be temporary until we know you're back to full health."

"And then maybe I can start cooking for you. And making breakfast. How do you feel about fresh-baked bread?"

"That's not necessary. Feel free to bake all you want, but you don't need to cook."

"I want to contribute something."

"Nonsense."

"I can't just sit around here all day."

"You won't be sitting around. You can paint, you can work out."

"Those are leisure activities."

"What's wrong with that?"

"We don't do leisure in the districts."

"I think after everything you've been through, you've earned a life of leisure."

"That's what they told us when we became victors. But it got boring really quick."

"Then I have to keep you from getting bored. Today you get to rest and relax. Tomorrow we're going shopping to get you some clothes and whatever else you need. The next day you have physical therapy. And then we're having dinner with my parents. And my mother wants to take you shopping. And then you'll have the government videos to shoot. Trust me. We'll keep you busy."

 _Videos._ The word fills him with dread. How can he look into a camera and tell Katniss to stop fighting?

_Wait... Katniss._

That's it. That's how she'll know he's okay. The video is aimed at the rebels. It will be broadcast all over Panem. It won't tell her that he's away from Snow, but she'll know that he's alive and in one piece, or two pieces, as the case may be. And maybe he can find a way to work in a little more information...

Suddenly Peeta's feeling much better.

+++++

Gracen wants him to rest, but Peeta thinks he's slept enough, so he finishes touring the apartment. The view is spectacular, especially from the living room. He can see the city laid out before him, with mountain peaks beyond.

His painkillers have kicked in, and he has that floating feeling again, though not nearly as much as before. At first he's nervous to lean against the glass, but when he does, he feels like he's flying. He has the feeling he had in the hospital, that it can't possibly be real, for the pain to be gone and for him to feel this good. He must be dreaming.

It's almost too much to process, to go from the horror of the cell to this seeming paradise.

And that's the problem. No one would ever accuse Peeta of being a cynic, but this all seems a little too good to be true. Can he really trust anyone from the Capitol? Is this all some sort of elaborate plot or trick? How is it possible that Gracen seems to want absolutely nothing from him?

But... what if he did relax and let himself enjoy it? No amount of worrying is going to change the outcome. If he's being set up for something, it's going to happen, no matter what he does. What's the point of constantly looking over his shoulder?

He again takes in the stunning view. He thinks about how he used to like the idea of living in the Capitol one day, preferably with Katniss. He couldn't resist its allure the way she could. She warned him that he had a weakness for beautiful things.

_‘Only when it comes to you.'_


End file.
